


Away From Home

by Wanderer



Series: The Night of the Secret [2]
Category: Wild Wild West (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Male Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-26 06:39:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/962786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderer/pseuds/Wanderer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone has a breaking point; even dedicated Secret Service agents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Away From Home

Away From Home

 

 

The next morning, though my head ached predictably, I took the time to bathe and get myself freshly barbered, and tried not to think of my newly dapper appearance as a sort of shield.  I told myself that I just wanted to look my best, in case Jim had big news to tell me…

 

Before I opened the parlor car door, I swallowed hard and gathered myself, wrapping my acting ability around me like a cloak.  Pursing my lips, I started whistling a happy tune.  Then I strode into the parlor car jauntily, as if I were the most carefree man in the world. 

 

Just in case Jim had news…

 

He did, but not the kind I’d expected.

 

When I walked into the parlor, Jim sat on the sofa with a cup of coffee, reading a newspaper.  I noted with some relief that he was alone.  “James my boy!” I smiled, glad to see him in spite of everything.  I made a show of looking about me.  “Where’s your young lady this fine morning?”

 

Jim raised an eyebrow.  “ _My_  young lady?” he shot back.

 

Hmm, I thought, surprised.  Jim’s little smile gave no clue to his thoughts, though, so I played it equally cool as I turned to hang up my hat.  “Isn’t she?”

 

“If you mean Caroline Thrace –”

 

It was my turn to raise an eyebrow at him.

 

Jim just shrugged carelessly.  “I’m not sure.  But you and I are heading off to Colorado, Artie.  As soon as we can get the train underway.”

 

I froze, and blinked at him.  That was so far from what I’d expected him to say, I couldn’t quite take it in.  “Huh?”

 

Jim’s eyes crinkled with amusement.  “I just got a telegraph.  There’s a situation brewing there, that Washington wants us to look into.”

 

I blinked again, feeling like a landed fish.  This was exactly the kind of escape plan I’d just concocted; but Jim was somehow using it on me!  “But… but what about –”

 

“The girl?”  Jim grinned.  “Oh, I’m sure Caroline will find someone else to amuse herself with.”

 

I gaped at him then.  “ _Amuse herself with_?” I echoed, stunned. “But… but I thought –”

 

Jim crossed his arms and cocked his head at me, looking curious.  “What did you think, Artie?”

 

I let out a breath I hadn’t even realized I was holding.  I hardly knew what to say.  Words are my stock in trade, but for once, I found myself floundering.  “Well, I mean -- Caroline’s intelligent, charming –”

 

“And wealthy,” Jim chimed in, grinning.  “Don’t forget that.”

 

“Yeah!  And her father’s a Senator!  Don’t forget  _that_!”

 

“And he has a stable full of some of the best horseflesh I’ve seen in years,” Jim added, still grinning.  “But we’re still going to Colorado, Artie.  Duty calls.”

 

“But she’s young, and – and beautiful –” 

 

“She is that,” Jim smiled. 

 

I stopped, aghast.  Was I  _trying_  to talk Jim into marrying Caroline myself?  That was the last thing I wanted.  But I couldn’t seem to help myself.  I wanted Jim to be happy, and it seemed like he was tossing away the likeliest woman who’d come along in years, without a thought.  It seemed profligate, even for him.  I just couldn’t let that happen without protest.

 

Jim suddenly got up off of the couch, strode over and clapped me on the shoulder.  He gave me a serious look.  “You know what, Artie?  You think so highly of the girl, why don’t  _you_  marry her?”  He started to laugh. 

 

I made a face.  “Ha ha,” I said.  I suddenly wondered if there was something hidden behind Jim’s laughter.  Maybe even behind this sudden mission.  I wasn’t the only one, after all, who could telegraph Washington asking for an assignment without telling his partner.  Had Jim been up to something?  The same thing I’d mean to do, if he’d wanted to settle down?

 

“Is that what happened?” I asked shrewdly.  “She wanted to get married, and you didn’t?”

 

Something flickered through Jim’s eyes then.  I couldn’t read it, but he stopped laughing.  “Yeah.  That’s it,” he agreed, brushing past me with a shrug.  “You know how women are.  She wanted something I couldn’t give.”  His voice was casual, even dismissive. 

 

But somehow, I didn’t quite believe him.  I stared at his back.  “Right,” I said.   _She wanted something I couldn’t give_ ….  I knew Jim wanted me to think he meant marriage by that.  But what came to my mind was a scene on the couch in this very parlor.  I saw again how Jim’s hand had frozen and dropped from Caroline’s hair when she’d said, “But I don’t like him.”

 

Was marriage really what he’d disagreed with Caroline about?

“Jim!”  I knew I should just let it go, but I couldn’t.  I’d tried so hard to stay away while he was courting the girl.  I’d tried not to be selfish.  Though I’d guessed that she disliked me, I’d never said a word against her.  I’d even planned to let her have him without a word, and to stay away from Jim thereafter.  I couldn’t bear the thought that I might’ve somehow come between them anyway.  Caroline Thrace really was the catch of a lifetime.  I had no doubt she’d’ve made a fine wife for Jim, given him happiness in a way I never could…

 

When Jim turned around, his face was perfectly, carefully blank.  “Yeah, Artie?”

 

I let out my breath in a sigh.  I wanted him to be happy, but what could I say?  How could I ask him to be honest with me about this, when I couldn’t be honest with him?  “Nothing,” I said at last.

 

Jim smiled at me again, with such genuine affection that it left me speechless.  “We’re off to Denver by the way,” he said.  “Just in case you were wondering.”  Then he turned and headed for his room.

 

I stood there watching him go, not knowing what to make of what had just happened. 

 

*********************************************************************************

 

Jim left Caroline Thrace behind as casually as he’d toss away a burnt-out match.  Once we left California, he didn’t mention her again.  It was as if she’d never existed – and I’d wondered if he was in love with her!  I just couldn’t fathom it.  Jim had always been hard to read, I’ll grant you.  But I wasn’t usually that far wrong about people, especially people I knew well.

 

It only made me even more determined to figure Jim out.  I’ve always had a fascination with riddles, and I reasoned that Jim’s rejection of the girl meant one of three things.  Either he’d never cared for her at all, which I didn’t believe.  Or maybe he was more interested in his work than in marriage, even marriage to as enticing a woman as Caroline.  That was certainly possible.  But there was one last, far more troubling possibility:  that Jim hadn’t married her because she didn’t like me.

 

All the possible answers to that riddle were troubling.  The last one didn’t even bear thinking about.  I told myself the truth had to be that Jim was just devoted to his work. 

 

I’d read of alienists in New York who theorized that a man’s childhood shaped him profoundly, and was even responsible for his actions as an adult.  People always had reasons for the things they did, and I’d seen that men wounded in battle usually called for their mothers.  So I suspected that the alienists were right, and that the actions of adults could in fact, spring from the well of their childhoods.

 

If so, then how had James come to be the man he was?  He was intelligent, confident, athletic, brave and handsome – a splendid man in every way.  So why did he hide so much of himself away?  Why did he seem so unwilling to commit to any woman?  Why did Jim guard his heart so fiercely?  What forces in his past had caused Jim to build such walls around himself? 

 

Though it wasn’t uncommon for men not to speak much of their pasts, James was more silent on the subject than most.  I knew almost nothing of his life before we’d met, other than the bare details of his war service.  He’d never talked to me much about that, either.  But I considered what part the war might’ve played in shaping Jim.  I’d seen many men who were forever changed by it, and some who were driven mad or whose souls seemed forever deadened by the carnage and death they saw, and were forced to inflict.  No one in that conflict was unaffected by it.  But Jim seemed to have been, if anything, strengthened by it -- like iron forged in fire.  Both Colonel Richmond and President Grant, who’d served with James, seemed to share that opinion.  Neither man would’ve sought West out for the Secret Service if they’d felt he had been damaged by his military service.  On the contrary – the fact that they’d offered him such a position meant that they had a high opinion of him and his abilities.  And I could see that their confidence in him had been warranted.  James West was an excellent agent. 

 

It seemed to me that the wary, guarded aspects of Jim’s personality must spring from a different source than the war.  In time, I began to think that perhaps I had guessed at their source:  Jim’s childhood.  I started to wonder, sadly, if James West had ever been truly loved by anyone before. 

 

The only thing Jim had ever said about his past, was that his mother had died when he was very young.  He never spoke of his father, and when he swore solemn, binding oaths, he swore them on his mother’s name.  I didn’t even know if his father was alive or dead.  Jim’s total silence on that subject seemed significant.  If he was still alive, I wondered what the man was like.  Had Jim’s father been strict and unkind to him?  Had his expectations of his son been unrealistic?  Had he wanted James to be different, or even been a kind of martinet who’d demanded perfection from his son at all times, in all things?  Had Jim’s father perhaps even beaten him if he failed to achieve it? 

 

Sadly, such sternness wasn’t uncommon.  And it would’ve explained a great deal:  James’ habit of putting up a false front by either trying to charm, or to freeze people out.  His stoicism about his own injuries, his obsession with making himself as strong as possible with constant exercise – even his apparent lack of interest in loving a woman, or settling down.  If his childhood had been desperately unhappy, if he’d been forced to prove himself to a father he could never satisfy, and if he’d been beaten and had no one to care, would that not have led him to hide his true feelings away, and to value achievement above all else?  And if Jim had little or no experience of loving parents or a loving family, why would he ever desire to marry? 

 

All of that was pure conjecture on my part.  I had no way to be sure of any of it.  In fact, I very much hoped that I was wrong about all of my theories about Jim.  Because even speculating about such a wretched childhood filled me with sadness for the boy James must once have been.  I’d loved both my own parents deeply; and though their fortunes had often varied, and they’d never had much, they’d loved me and been good to me.  I’d learned love and kindness from them.  Who had Jim learned it from?  If his only experience of love had come from his mother, it must’ve been brief indeed, given how young he’d been when she died.  I wondered about the man Jim would become, if his past was as loveless as I sensed it might’ve been.  What would the future hold for him? 

 

I had no real answers for my questions about what had shaped Jim’s character, and knew that I was unlikely to ever get any from him.  My friend James West was a quiet stream that ran deep, and he fascinated me more than any other man I’d ever known.  I wished he could know that whatever his past had been like, he was, in fact, no longer unloved.  Though I could never tell him, I tried to make up for it by watching his back and protecting him as best I could.  And since James regularly took insane risks as gleefully as other men raked in cash when they won at poker, that was no mean feat. 

 

I grinned suddenly, remembering something James had once said.  “I don’t need to talk much, Artie.  You’ve got enough flash and fire for the two of us.  Someone has to be quiet, at least on occasion, or neither of us would ever get any sleep.”

 

He had a point there… 

 

*****************************************************************************

 

After I got back from my vacation to San Francisco, I had a few tasks to perform before I could sit down and talk to Jim about it.  So I emptied my saddle bags, washed my face and hands, and paid a local lad to carry my bag of dirty clothes off to a Chinese laundry near the trainyard.  Then I went into the parlor to find Jim.  But it seemed that he’d either grown tired of waiting for me, or changed his mind about wanting to hear about my trip.  In any event, he was nowhere to be seen.

 

I shrugged, a bit disappointed.  But it wasn’t the first time Jim had wandered off while I was otherwise occupied.  He was a restless man who tended to be in constant motion, even within the confines of the train.  I knew I’d see him again soon, perhaps at supper.  We could talk then.  So I wandered off myself, into my lab.  I’d read of some interesting experiments with electricity recently.  I wanted to see if I could duplicate, or perhaps even improve upon them. 

 

I was sorting through a pile of wire, wondering if I could adapt it to such ends, when a low voice suddenly sounded in my ear.  “So tell me.  How was your vacation, Artemus?” 

 

“Gah!”  I jumped and whirled around, startled, my heart beating fast. 

 

Jim stood just inches away, shirtless, bare footed, and grinning like a Cheshire cat.  Judging by his attire, or lack of same, and the light sheen of sweat on his skin, I assumed he must’ve been exercising to occupy himself, while I put my things away.  If so, he’d obviously broken it off to come and talk about my trip, after all.  Though a part of me was pleased that he’d sought me out, and in such a playful mood as well, I pretended at irritation instead.  “Damn it, James!” I growled.  “I’ve told you not to creep about like that!”  I wondered if he’d notice how neatly I’d evaded his question.

 

To my relief, Jim didn’t seem to realize that.  He was too busy looking smug and completely unrepentant.  “Sorry,” he grinned.

 

We both knew he was lying.  Jim could move as silently as a shadow when he chose, and he loved sneaking up on me and scaring the blazes out of me like that.  It amused him, the arrogant young pup; and that amused me.  It would never do to let Jim see that, though.  So I crossed my arms, narrowed my eyes at him and warned, “One of these days, I’ll pull my gun on you when you do that, and then you really  _will_ be sorry!”

 

Jim’s grin slipped away.  He spread his hands in a gesture of protest.  “Artie!  I’m hurt.  I was just looking out for your welfare, partner.”  He widened his eyes and cocked his head, trying hard to look as innocent as a lost puppy.  I snorted.  Jim wasn’t that harmless when he was fast asleep, for Crissakes.  Besides, I knew him; and despite his widened eyes, a corner of his mouth had turned up in a smirk. 

 

I raised a skeptical eyebrow at him.  “Oh really?”

 

“Yes.  I was just checking,” he smiled sweetly, “to see if your reflexes got dull, while you were away on vacation.”

 

That was the second time he’d mentioned my trip.  A faint twinge of unease darkened my amusement.  Was James just having fun, I wondered, or was he trying to draw me out?  “Indeed!  And what’s your verdict?” I asked, smiling to cover my suspicions.

 

He cocked his head, seeming to consider the question.  “Well…. you do seem a bit rusty.  Maybe I should go out and come back in, and we can try it again–“

 

The cocky bastard.  Still, I could see that Jim was just teasing.  I relaxed and decided to let myself have a bit of fun, too. 

 

“Ha!” I cried.  Raising a hand swiftly, as if I were drawing a sword, I took up a proper fencing stance.  Scowling, I pointed my imaginary blade at Jim and thundered, “ _My_ verdict is, off with your head!  And I assure you that my skills with a sword have NOT dulled one whit lately!  É la!” I advanced on Jim with my phantom rapier, driving him back a bit, closer to the door.  “Take that, you varlet!”

 

Jim jumped back, playing along, his hands raised in supplication now.  “Whoa, Artie!  Calm down!  You wouldn’t skewer an unarmed man, would you?”

 

I grinned evilly.  “Try me!”  Having too much fun to stop, I feinted at Jim again, just to see what he’d do. 

 

Jim ducked back even further.  “Okay!  I’ll leave, I swear!  Just don’t kill me!” he pleaded, grinning.

 

Though I loved such playacting, and savored the rare occasions when James let down his guard enough to indulge in it, I stayed in character and faked another glare at him.  Tracing menacing circles under his nose with my invisible sword, I roared, “You impudent young varmint!”  (I’d always had a fondness for that word, but seldom had the chance to use it.)  “You think you can best me?” 

 

“Oh, no sir!”  Jim held up his hands, pretending to quake in terror.  “You win!  I give up.”

 

“Ha!” I crowed, triumphant on the field.  “See that you do!”  I finally put up my pretend rapier, then gave it one last dramatic flourish before pretending to sheathe it at my hip. 

 

James lowered his hands, and I thought our mock battle was over.  But it seemed that Jim wanted to keep the game going, because just as I started to turn away, he lunged toward me.  I tried to pull away, but as usual, Jim was faster.  I swear, the man had the reflexes of a cat.  Before I could blink, he’d grabbed me from behind and laid an arm across my throat. “Or what, Artie?  What’ll you do if I don’t?” he teased, his breath hot on the back of my neck.

 

Jim was so close, I could feel his heart beating against my back as he held me with just enough force to keep me from escaping easily.  A dark impulse flared in me, to show James just what I might dare to do.  What he’d made me burn to do, standing there so handsome and full of himself, half-dressed and laughing, his eyes lit with mischief while we played.  But I knew better than to try it.  I didn’t want Jim’s laughter to turn to anger or worse, disgust.  Best to leave it at that, I told myself.  I turned my head and scowled ferociously at him instead.  “I’ll let you do your own cooking for a month, you impudent young whippersnapper!  How’s that?”

 

Jim looked horrified.  “Anything but that!  Jesus, Artie, I  _surrender_!” he said fervently.  He let go of me and held both hands high. 

 

I straightened my clothing and inclined my head, regal as a king, with an even wider grin.  “Good.  Lucky for you, I accept.”

 

We both burst out laughing. 

 

As we laughed, warmth filled me.  I remembered how things used to be between us:  James so reserved and uncommunicative behind his cold smiles, me doubting that we could ever be anything more than fellow agents.  In that instant, with Jim shirtless and laughing beside me, I realized how far we’d come -- and how lucky I was that he’d decided to open his heart enough to let me in.  In spite of all our differences, we’d become the best of friends.

 

But friendship, sweet as it is, has certain boundaries that can’t be crossed.  I was in danger of starting to enjoy our reunion a little too much, and I had to rein myself in.  “All right, Jim.  Now that you’ve had your fun,” I smiled, “if there’s nothing else, I have an experiment to get to.” 

 

“Okay,” Jim smiled.

 

I turned back to my pile of wire, and forced my thoughts back to the experiments I’d come in here to try.

 

But for some reason, Jim didn’t leave.  I could still feel him there, hovering behind my back watching me.  I wasn’t sure why, but in truth, I didn’t much care.  I was already half absorbed with planning all the materials I’d need to do study of electricity.  I threw over my shoulder absently, “Is there something else, James?”

 

“Yeah. Yeah there is.”  I expected he’d tell me, but Jim fell silent instead.

 

“Well?  You care to enlighten me, or are you just going to stand there?”  I prodded. 

 

I turned to face Jim again.  He looked strange.  A bit awkward, almost nervous.  He looked up at me, then away again.  It was completely uncharacteristic of him.  Under other circumstances, I would’ve been intrigued.  But at that moment, I just wanted him to leave, so I could start tinkering.  “Come on.  Out with it, James.  What’s the matter?” I asked impatiently.

 

Jim shrugged, and scratched the back of his neck.  “I don’t know.  You’ve just – been acting kind of odd lately, Artie.”   His voice sounded oddly tentative, which was totally uncharacteristic of him.  “Even before you went to San Francisco --”

 

“Have I now?”  I cut him off.  I did my best to make my voice sound light, as if he’d just said something silly, and I smiled at him.  But my heart started beating fast.  We were on dangerous ground here, and I knew it, though James didn’t.  At least, I hoped he didn’t.  Still, I needed to cut off this line of discussion at once.  I had to pretend a casualness I didn’t feel, because Jim was nothing if not a keen observer; and he knew me so well.  It wouldn’t do to have Jim discover how nervous his seemingly innocent question had made me.  No, that wouldn’t do at all.

 

“Is there something wrong, Artie?  Something you’re not telling me?” 

 

Jim’s question turned me cold.  Still, it wasn’t easy for me to lie to him.  Or perhaps I should say, it was harder with him than anyone else, even for a practiced liar like me.  But I’d long ago learned that one of the best ways to lie was to mix in just a wee bit of truth, along with a falsehood.  Somehow, that made the words easier to say, and more convincing to hear as well.  “Of course not.  Perhaps I’ve been a bit tired these past few months, my boy,” I added, with a slight shrug.  “We had some tough assignments lately, and I’m not as young as I used to be, you know.  But my vacation took care of that.  I’m well rested now, so it’s nothing to concern yourself about.”

 

I turned back to my lab table with a fine show of carelessness, and started sorting through my pile of wire.  What I’d said about my age was true enough.  I’d not see 35 again, and was coming up hard on 40.  But I wasn’t feeling my age.  That wasn’t what had caused the tension between us that Jim had evidently sensed.  I’d worked very hard to keep Jim ignorant of its true source.  I’d always kept a slight distance between us, praying that Jim wouldn’t know, that he would never guess my secret…  But he was so damn perceptive, and since we both worked together and lived in close quarters, deceiving him hadn’t been easy.  I just prayed he’d accept my excuse, and let it go at that.

 

Jim’s reply came swiftly.  “You’re not old, Artie.”

 

Without even looking at Jim, I could tell that he was smiling.  The affection in his voice warmed me as much as his words did.  I felt a little foolish then, remembering how I’d worried that Jim might see me like that when I left for San Francisco. 

 

Turning about again, I gave him a smile in return.  “Why thank you, James.  I do feel better after my trip.  Rested and ready to go.”  Again, truth mixed with lies.  I did feel rested, but now that I was back with my young partner, the hollowness I’d lived with for so many years had opened up inside of me again.  And I felt a cold dread, that Jim might discover what I’d kept from him for so long.  I turned away again, both to keep Jim from scrutinizing my face, and to discourage him from pursuing this line of questioning.  I hoped that my words would reassure him and put an end to it.

 

Though I was no longer young, I wasn’t old yet, either.  I liked to think of myself as a man in my prime.  But watching Jim, sometimes I felt every minute of the ten years between us.  James West was not yet thirty, incredibly handsome, intelligent, confident, and in the perfect peak of physical condition.  Constant exercising kept him fit.  I admired him for it, and for the visible results of all the calisthenics Jim constantly practiced.  But a man would have to be a saint not to feel just a mite inferior sometimes, in the presence of such a superior being.  I confess, even a confident, charming man-about-town such as I sometimes felt a bit left in the dust, by my friend Jim.

 

Left in the dust…   The melancholy phrase caught at my mind.  Jim would leave me behind one day, if he stayed with the Secret Service.  But I wondered if James had ever guessed how often I’d thought of leaving  _him_.

 

The idea had its attractions.  It seemed so simple a solution, for one thing.  I could just tender my resignation to President Grant, then get on my horse and head west, as I’d done after the war. 

 

There’d be no more intrusive, uncomfortable questions.  No more constant temptations or frustrations.  I could leave James West and his piercing blue eyes, and the hole they’d carved inside me, behind me forever. 

 

I could stop feeling hollow, and start my life over.  I could --

 

But no.

 

It was a nice dream in some ways.  A comforting dream, that I sometimes trotted out when things got bad and I was in sore need of some kind of consolation, even if it was only of the imaginary kind.  But that was all it was – a fantasy.  How could I leave? 

 

I would lose the best friend I’d ever had.  A friend to whom loyalty and faithfulness meant a great deal.  James and I were partners now, a Union of sorts, our own small nation of two.  If I sundered our partnership, I was sure Jim would see it as a betrayal akin to that of the Confederacy we’d once fought against. 

 

And Jim’s feelings, important though they were, were not my only concerns in the matter. 

 

His safety was another.  How could I trust someone else to look after James West if I left him?  Jim was so appallingly reckless.  He always had been.  I don’t know if it was because of what he’d already survived during the war, or if it was just his nature, but I’d never seen a man as courageous, as utterly fearless as James West.  Despite his intelligence, when it came to exercising caution and saving his own neck, Jim had all the sense that God gave a goose, as they say.   Our work for the Secret Service was extremely dangerous, and not the sort of job a man could do alone.  But I knew that if I ever resigned, Jim would probably try to do just that.  Despite his good looks and his ability to charm when he chose, Jim was something of a loner.  He didn’t trust easily.  He’d had problems trusting me at first, and we’d been together for years now.  Given all that, I couldn’t see him ever truly accepting another partner, even if President Grant himself ordered him to take one on. 

 

I was convinced that if I left, even if Grant foisted another partner on him, Jim would simply send the poor man in the opposite direction during their investigations, and try to carry on his work all alone.

 

If I left, James West would probably get himself killed.

 

That was the root of it, the real heart of my private dilemma.  The thing that always kept me from tendering my resignation, no matter how much I ached inside, living with James.  My greatest fear was that the most likely outcome of my departure would be Jim’s death.

 

I’ve always been a selfish man at heart.  I love my creature comforts:  fine clothes, fine wine, brandy and cigars, and a warm, soft bed when the day ends.  Preferably with a pretty partner in it, to liven things up.  There isn’t much I wouldn’t do, and haven’t done, to save my own skin.  Still … though my sense of self preservation was much keener than James’, even I had my limits.  There was one thing, or rather one man, whom I cared more for than any of those things – more than even my own life.  Jim did his job to protect his country and his President.  I’d taken the same oaths, and meant them just as much when I did.  But as the years passed, and Jim and I survived many dangerous missions together and grew closer as we did, things changed for me.  Despite those oaths, my partner came to mean more to me than anyone, or anything else in the world. 

 

James West was now at the top of the short list of things in this life that I’d die for.

 

I’d never told Jim that my loyalties had shifted a bit, of course.  I’m sure he wouldn’t’ve thanked me for it.  In fact, he probably would’ve been angry if he’d known.  Jim’s sense of duty was always of a sterner sort than my own.   I was more flexible.  Besides, my loyalty to my President and my country hadn’t changed; it had just assumed a slightly lower order of priority.  My paramount task, as I secretly saw it now, was to protect James West first, then Ulysses S. Grant and my country.  Jim came before all.

 

So I was caught between a rock and the proverbial hardest of places.  I couldn’t be happy staying; but despite Jim’s uncomfortable questions lately, I couldn’t just up and leave, either.  Saving myself by leaving the Secret Service would be too selfish.  I couldn’t do so by leaving death and destruction in my wake.  The destruction of a friendship, and most likely, eventually, the death of my most cherished friend.

 

The final nail in the coffin of my fond dreams of independence was Jim’s stubbornness.  He could give a mule lessons in that, and after all the years that we’d been partners, and all that we’d been through together, what reason could I give for leaving him that he’d accept?  I couldn’t imagine any sort of innocent excuse that would ever be good enough to convince Jim that I had to go.  I certainly couldn’t tell him the truth.  But knowing Jim, he’d never accept anything less.

 

And I’d already discovered that it was far harder for me to lie to Jim, than to anyone else. 

 

I was as certain as a man could be that if I actually got on my horse and rode away from my life as a Secret Service agent, one of two things would happen.  Either Jim would get angry with me for betraying him, let me go and soldier on alone, with his usual reckless courage, to his death.  Or else he wouldn’t accept my decision to leave him at all.  He’d refuse to let me leave until I told him why I was really going.  He’d ask for answers I could never give.  And if I refused to provide them, Jim was stubborn enough to jump on his horse, follow me wherever I went and hound me relentlessly, until I finally had to tell him the truth.  Which of course would inevitably cost me his friendship.

 

In truth, I wasn’t sure which possibility was worse.  Either way, I’d lose Jim.  But I might do that anyway, if I stayed and somehow gave away my secret.

 

Just thinking about the whole coil made my head ache.  If Jim seemed a tad suspicious now, I shuddered to think how pointed his questions would get, and how furious he might be if I were audacious enough to tell him that I planned to leave him.  In all the years we’d been together, Jim had only lost his temper with me on a few occasions.  It was not an experience I wanted to repeat.  But I knew that leaving him would probably provoke a furious outburst, worse than any I’d ever seen from him before.

 

I stared at the piled coils of wire on my laboratory table blindly.  Unable, as usual, to find any answers to the pain that plagued me, and not knowing what else to say to Jim, I just waited helplessly for him to leave.

 

Jim finally broke the silence by pushing lightly at my shoulder, a teasing gesture that forced me to turn to face him again.  Which I’m sure was his true intention.  “All right,  _old man_ ,” he smiled.  “If that’s how you want to play it.”

 

I knew that I should just let them go:  the warmth in Jim’s eyes, and the hint of challenge there as well.  But actor and reprobate that I was, how could I resist either?  “’Play it?’” I echoed.  “Why James.  Whatever do you mean?”

 

Jim raised an eyebrow at me, a sure sign that his curiosity had been aroused.  “You tell  _me_.  You’re hiding something, Artie.” 

 

“What?” I rolled my eyes and shook my head.  We were back to that, were we?  I remembered the odd conversation we’d had before I left for San Francisco, and realized that Jim had obviously been thinking about this for some time.  He’d sensed that something was wrong, and predictably, he’d started asking questions.

 

Damn it!  After all these years, just what had Jim seen or imagined about me that worried him?  I honestly didn’t know.  I’d been circumspect lately, as always.  Our friendship was too important for me to do otherwise. 

 

Then all at once, I remembered Caroline saying:   _It’s the way he looks at you, the way he’s always hovering around…_

My heart filled with dread.  Maybe it wasn’t anything Jim had seen -- maybe it was what his former lady friend had intuited about me that was troubling him.  At the time, I’d assumed Jim hadn’t believed a word of her hints about me.  He’d given no sign of it.  Then again, Jim was  better at hiding what he felt than I was.  So what if her intimation that I was an invert had taken root in his mind, after all?  Was that the reason for all his questions lately, and his suspicion that I was hiding something?  I felt a distinct chill.  Jim hated liars.  If he felt I was lying to him about that, he’d never rest until he forced me to own up to it. 

 

But if I did, if I told him the truth, I’d lose everything.  I’d lose Jim.  I’d always known that, from the moment that we met.

 

More aware than ever of the importance of appearing innocent, I scoffed at him, pretending disbelief.  “Oh, for goodness’ sake!” I snorted.  “That’s ridiculous.”

 

“Is it?” 

 

“Completely.”  I did my best to look irritated.  “Don’t you have anything better to do than play games, James?  I certainly do.  So, please -- take yourself off, and leave me to do my experiments in peace.”  Again, a bit of truth in the lie.  I did wish he would leave, but not because I was in a hurry to dabble in electricity any longer.  I felt too shaken up to concentrate now.  Still, the annoyance in my voice was real.

 

Jim shrugged, his eyes never leaving mine.  “All right, Artie,” he said, amiably enough.  But I wasn’t fooled.   I saw the intensity behind his gaze, and I knew Jim.  He hadn’t given up the battle, he was just yielding the field for the moment.  So I wasn’t surprised when he added, “But I’ll get it out of you sooner or later.  You know that, don’t you.”

 

It was a statement, not a question.  I could see amusement in Jim’s piercing blue eyes, and his mouth curved a little in a smile. 

 

Still, I felt colder than ever.  He hadn’t believed me.  Christ!  What was I going to do?  Hell.  What  _could_ I do, but pretend ignorance? 

 

“If you’re determined to create a mystery where none exists, how can I stop you?”  I shrugged, as if I weren’t turning cold inside.  As if everything was still all right.  “But you’re being foolish.  So go exercise your imagination elsewhere.  I’ve got work to do.”

 

My words were curt, and deliberately dismissive.  I turned back to my lab table then, and began sorting through the wire and other things there, as if I still meant to go through with my experiment.  I didn’t, I was far too upset by Jim’s questions; but he had no way of knowing that.  I just hoped that if I pretended to ignore him and lose myself in my scientific work, he’d cease his prying and go away.

 

After a long pause, Jim finally left.  But I didn’t breathe any easier, even then.

 

I put both hands down flat on my lab table to stop them from shaking, and closed my eyes.   _God damn that girl!_  I thought savagely.  But that wasn’t fair, and I knew it.  If Jim had come to suspect my true nature, it could be no one’s fault but my own. 

 

********************************************************************************

 

A scant two weeks later, I knelt next to Jim on a dusty backwoods trail near Rend Lake, Illinois.  Jim had been shot; I wasn’t sure by whom.  I hadn’t been there when it happened.  I’d been riding to town to meet him when I’d heard the faint, peppery sound of distant shots, and guessed that my partner was in trouble. 

 

I kicked my horse into a gallop, and found Jim about a quarter of a mile onward.  The sound of shots had stopped before I reached him, and Jim was just lowering his revolver when I came riding up.  That was a relief.  But relief fled when I saw that Jim was down on the ground behind a rock, bleeding from what looked like a gunshot wound.  I pulled my gun and shot a quick glance in the direction Jim was facing.  I saw no one, but I did hear the sound of hoofbeats receding in the distance.  I cursed to myself.  His assailant must’ve heard me coming and high-tailed it.  Lucky for him, I thought grimly.  I’d’ve loved to pay him back in kind, for the bullet he’d left in Jim.

 

Since vengeance wasn’t possible without leaving Jim behind, I put vengeance from my mind, holstered my gun and dismounted to take a look at him.  The bullet had plowed into his abdomen, and he was already bleeding badly.  “Damn it, Jim!  How’d this happen?”  Fear roughened my voice.

 

Jim smiled wryly, cool as always.  “How it … usually happens, Artie.  I didn’t … duck fast enough,” he grated.

 

 “I can see that.  Who shot you?”  I asked, as I pulled my extra shirt from my saddlebag.  I kept one wrapped away in there, in oilcloth to keep it clean for emergencies like this.  Dirty wounds killed more men than bullets.  I tore a strip from it for a bandage. 

 

 “Not… sure.  I came around the bend, and saw some fool cowpoke… beating a woman.  His girl, I guess.  I--”

 

“I get it,” I cut him off, a bit harshly.  Jim didn’t need to say any more.  I could guess what’d happened.  I shook my head.  With Jim, trouble usually came from one of three sources:  a woman, a case or a horse.  Col. Richmond had sent us here on a case, but we hadn’t even made it to town yet to investigate it - because Jim had found another way to endanger himself.  He’d seen some cowboy beating his girl, and with his usual chivalry, had waded right in.

 

Only the cowboy must’ve taken exception to Jim’s interference, and shot him for his trouble. 

 

It wasn’t the first time Jim had done something this stupid.  I’d known for years that with him, there would always be a woman; and I’d thought I’d resigned myself to it.  But that day, for some reason, it was like something inside me snapped.  I felt like I was the one bleeding, instead of Jim.

 

“Did you have to get involved, Jim?  We’ve got work to do, damn it!” I swore, my tone far darker than I’d meant it to be.  I wasn’t being fair, and I knew it.  I might’ve done the same thing he had, if I’d come across some hapless woman being beaten.  Still, I was so angry, I couldn’t even be gentle with him.  Kneeling beside Jim, I pressed down hard on the bloody, seeping wound in his lower abdomen.  Any other man probably would’ve cried out, or even passed out from the pain.  Jim just closed his eyes and shuddered a little.

 

Though Jim hadn’t complained at my roughness, I couldn’t seem to stop harping at him.  “Did you have to pick now to play Galahad?” 

 

Jim quirked a half smile.  “You’re just – mad that you -- didn’t get to play him,” he panted.  “It’s … a good part.”

 

Normally, I would’ve appreciated his joke.  It was what we did when things got bad.  We joked, to keep our minds off whatever was going on.  But right then, I almost hated Jim for taking this so lightly.  I told myself it was his tone that had me so angry, anyway.  It helped keep my mind off the real reason.  Still, I had to grit my teeth against the urge to cuff or even hit him.  I bore down meanly on the makeshift bandage instead, which was rapidly darkening with his blood.

 

Jim gasped.  “Dammit, Artie,” he groaned, scrabbling vainly at my hands.  “Not so hard!”

 

“Shut up!” I snapped.  “I’m trying to help you.”  I knew I was doing a poor job of it, though.  Part of me wondered at my lack of self control.  Then a thought cut through my brain unexpectedly:   _I can’t take this anymore.  I can’t.  I have to get out.  I have to leave him, before I lose my mind_.

 

It was selfish of me, and I knew it.  It was also the last thing I should’ve been thinking of, when Jim needed my help.  Still, it took almost everything I had to force the thought away.  I concentrated on how Jim had gotten shot, instead.  I was surprised that just one man had managed to take him down like this.  Then it occurred to me…

 

“That must’ve been some girl,” I said, testing my theory.

 

Jim laughed a little.  “She was.  You – should’ve seen her, Artie.  A blonde … with big blue eyes … and hair down to –”

 

“Never mind,” I snapped.  It was clear Jim had been distracted by her, almost fatally so.  I didn’t need to know any more than that.  In fact, I was fairly sure that if he treated me to a full description of the girl’s assets, I’d hit him right on the jaw.  The crazy bastard!  My hands were red with his blood, and he was still completely unrepentant about it.  I ground my teeth for a minute, swallowing down my anger.  “I suppose she rode off with him, after?” I asked, since there was no sign of either of them.

 

Jim sighed.  “Yeah, she did.”

 

I shook my head.  There was no accounting for women, or their strange taste in men, either.

 

“He had a nice horse, too, Artie,” Jim panted.  “A big … Appaloosa gelding, with… the prettiest markings--”

 

“ _Enough_!”  I growled.  It was bad enough Jim had gotten himself shot over some other man’s girl.  I wasn’t about to sit and listen to him sing the praises of his shooter’s horse, too.  Which he’d do at length, given half a chance.  Jim loved horses almost as much as women.  “You damn fool,” I muttered, half to myself as I pressed on his wound.  “I swear, Jim, sometimes I think you go looking for trouble!  Like we don’t have enough already --”

 

“Quit … bein’ so grouchy, Artie… and help me up,” Jim ordered.

 

I glared at him.  Thankfully, the bullet had struck him in his side.  If it had hit further in, he’d have a hole in a vital organ.  As it was, I wasn’t happy about the amount of blood he’d already lost, or the way his tanned skin had quickly turned pale.  Still, when I glared at him, Jim just grinned at me.

 

That smile…  Beautiful, cocky and marvelously free.  Somehow, my rage ebbed away, replaced by a surge of helpless tenderness.  This stubborn, arrogant, beautiful, impossible man – I loved him so.  It swept over me sometimes, so powerfully that I couldn’t resist it.  It took away my anger then, and I was glad of it.  I suddenly found myself smiling back at him, despite the situation.  “Okay.  Let’s get you up,” I said quietly.  I wound my other arm around him and pulled him up as gently as I could.  But Jim moaned through gritted teeth before he gained his feet, and I felt him shaking.

 

“Sorry,” I muttered, but I kept up the pressure on his wound with my left hand anyway.  The bloodstain on Jim’s shirt was spreading, despite that.  “I’ve got to get you to a doctor,” I told him.

 

“I can … make it… back to the train,” Jim panted.  “Just … get me on … my horse.” 

 

I opened my mouth to protest the idea.  For one thing, Jim’s horse was nowhere in sight.  I’d assumed he’d run off, or that Jim had sent him off when the shooting started. 

 

Jim took a breath, then whistled feebly.   Before I could say a word, Hawk came running up to us.  I blinked.  I’d half forgotten that little trick.  And Jim’s whistle had been weak, so soft I’d hardly heard it myself.  But somehow, Hawk had.  I’ve never been superstitious, but I swear, he had that horse trained so well that I sometimes wondered if he was a sorcerer, and Hawk was his familiar.  Witches had black cats, didn’t they?  And Jim had that big black horse…

 

“There,” Jim panted.  “Just… get me… on his back.  Then you can… fix me up…at home.”

 

I set my teeth.  Either Jim was being stubborn, as usual, or the blood loss had already affected his thinking.  Though his faith in my doctoring was touching, I wasn’t about to try getting him all the way back to the train to dig a bullet out of him when there was a doctor far closer to us, in Rend Lake.  I wasn’t going to waste time arguing with him about it, either.  I knew a simpler way of ‘convincing’ him. 

 

“Sure, Jim,” I said, pretending to agree.  Then, under the guise of helping him over to his horse, I pressed down even harder on his wound.  Before long, Jim’s whole body corded with the strain, and he cried out.  Finally, before I could lift him up onto Hawk’s back, he shuddered and passed out.  When his knees gave way, I caught him neatly in my arms before he could hit the ground.

 

“Good,” I said calmly, relieved that I’d won that argument so easily.   I laid him back down against a nearby tree for a moment.  Then I pulled out my clean shirt again, and tore more strips off it for crude bandages.  They’d have to last till I got Jim into Rend Lake.  Once I’d tied them on tightly over Jim’s shirt, I lifted him up again.  “Now then.  Let’s get you to that doctor, shall we?”

 

Only I wasn’t going to use Jim’s horse.  Hawk hated having two riders on his back, and though it would’ve served Jim right to be tied to his horse for his foolishness, now that my anger had faded, I didn’t have the heart to do it.  I heaved him into my saddle instead, draping him over it until I could mount up behind him.  I’d take Jim back into town on Flame instead, and hold onto him myself.  But before I could mount up behind him, Flame shied a little at the smell of Jim’s blood.  “Shh, it’s all right,” I told him, though in truth, I wasn’t sure it would be.  “Shh.  Hold still, Flame.  It’s okay, boy,” I soothed.  “We’ve gotta help Jim now.”

 

Once my horse calmed and stood still, I turned and tied Hawk up to my saddle.  Then I mounted, pulled Jim gently up against me, whistled to Hawk and kicked Flame into a gallop.  Hawk followed along with surprising docility, almost as if he knew Jim was hurt.  I held on tightly to Jim as we rode.  Jostling him like this was risky, but I had no choice.  He was still bleeding badly.  I had to get to town fast, so I could find out where their doctor lived before he lost too much of it. 

 

I just prayed that the local sawbones would be home, and that he’d be good at his trade.  If he wasn’t, I’d have to try getting the bullet out myself after all.  I comforted myself with the thought that even if it came to that, as long as I found the doctor’s house, at least I’d have a clean place to work, and something better than a dirty knife to operate with.

 

************************************************************************************

 

Lucky for Jim, that little Illinois town did have a decent doctor, who patched him up and sent us on our way the next day.

 

But that was the last of my luck, when it came to Jim.

 

Strange, isn’t it, how sometimes the whole course of our lives is radically altered in an instant; and how we can be undone by the smallest of things.

 

I still remember every moment of that fateful morning with James.  The one that changed everything.

 

It started out quietly enough. 

 

The doctor had told me that Jim was injured badly enough that he should be in bed for a week.  Right.  As soon as he uttered those words, I’d known that Jim wouldn’t stay down for that long.  He’d always been stubborn, and prone to shrugging off his injuries even when they were extremely serious.  I’d sighed to myself, knowing I was in for a fight, or at least some rip-roaring arguments, when I tried to make James obey the doctor’s orders.

 

Not that that would stop me.

 

For the first two days, thankfully, Jim was truly too weak and in too much pain to do more than sleep, and eat a little soup.  But on the third morning of his convalescence, shortly after Jim woke up, he said, “I want some coffee, Artie.”  He had a stubborn glint in his eye that I recognized all too well.  That look meant trouble.  I kept our coffee in the galley, which was some distance from Jim’s compartment.  Jim must’ve decided he was well enough to get up and get some anyway.  I knew damn well he wasn’t.  One rip-roaring argument, I thought wryly, coming right up.

 

I didn’t know the half of it.

 

“Sure.  I’ll get you some,” I stood up, trying to head him off at the pass. 

 

“No!  I can get it.” 

 

“You’re not read for that yet, Jim –”

 

“ _I can do it_!” he growled, with such impatience that I knew his enforced idleness had started to chafe on him already.

 

I shrugged and sighed.  “All right.”  Jim was such a child sometimes.  Stubborn and reckless to a fault.  I’d learned long ago that there was no point fighting him on minor things like this.  Might as well save my strength for more important matters.  I figured Jim would never make it down the hall, but things might go easier between us if I let him try.  After all, I’d be there to catch him when, not if, he fell.   “If you insist.”

 

“I do.”  Jim sat up stubbornly, pulled himself to the edge of the bed, and slowly swung his legs off of it.  Then he bit his lip, as his barely healed wound voiced its disapproval of his sudden movements.  Jim didn’t let that stop him, though.  He just gritted his teeth and lurched to his feet.  He barely stifled a groan and couldn’t stand up straight, but he kept going.  He lurched slowly to his doorway, then paused, leaning heavily against his doorframe for support.  I was tempted to say, “I warned you, didn’t I?”  But I knew better.  And he looked so pale, it was downright pitiful.  So I stifled my impulse to laugh.  Besides, it might be more fun to give in to it, and the I-told-you-so that he had coming too when he collapsed, as he no doubt would very soon.  So I cocked an eyebrow at him instead.  “You sure you’re all right?”  I fought hard not to smile.

 

Jim’s jaw set in a hard line I’d seen a thousand times.  “’I’m fine!”

 

_Right_ , I thought, both amused and exasperated.   _Let’s just see about that, shall we_?  I stood there watching him, knowing his next move would be to try to walk to the galley.  I remember laying bets with myself that he wouldn’t make it even halfway there, and feeling both affection and amusement at his bullheaded stubbornness.

 

Then it happened.  Jim let go of the door, took a few slow steps forward and doubled over, so suddenly that even I was taken by surprise.  He didn’t cry out, but he went white as a sheet, and his face twisted up with pain. 

 

I leapt forward, no longer amused.  “Jim!” 

 

I reached out to catch him – and Jim pulled away.  “Don’t!” he grated.

 

For the first time in the five years I’d known him, James West shied away from me.  He staggered backwards as if he’d just lost his balance from the pain of his injury.  But it didn’t look accidental to me, and I froze.

 

 “’S’okay.  I’m … all … right,” he insisted.  That was a lie too.  Hell, he’d had to brace himself against the wall to stay on his feet.  And he was still white, hunched over and panting.  Jim obviously needed assistance -- he just didn’t want mine.

 

I wasn’t in much better shape myself.  I’d gone cold all over.  James hadn’t wanted me to touch him.  He’d been so opposed to the idea, in fact, that he’d practically thrown himself over backwards when he was badly hurt, trying to avoid me.   _Don’t_!  His hoarse warning rang in my head.  I felt like the bottom had suddenly dropped out of the world. 

 

I’d held out my hand to catch him, to help him.  I dropped it slowly. 

 

It was all over.  In that instant, I knew it. 

 

If Jim couldn’t stand for me to touch him, even when he was in dire need of help, then we weren’t partners anymore.  We weren’t even friends.

 

This was my worst nightmare come true.  Now that it had finally happened, I could hardly believe it.  Reeling inwardly, I searched my mind for some reason for it, for some explanation for his behavior.  James wasn’t an unfair man, or a cruel one.  I must’ve done something that had deeply offended him.  But what?  He’d stopped asking me questions about what I was hiding even before he got shot, and I’d thought the tension between us was gone.  I’d thought I’d been wrong about Caroline after all; that Jim hadn’t believed what she’d said about me.  Now, I wondered if I’d been mistaken about that.  But even if he had believed her, at first, I couldn’t think of anything I’d done wrong lately, or that Jim could possibly have misinterpreted as being more than merely friendly.  Panicked, I mentally reviewed everything that I’d done in the past few days…

 

Then it came to me. 

 

_Oh God_.  The other day when Jim was feverish, after he first got shot.  I gave him laudanum, and while he was unconscious, I started wiping him with cool cloths to get his fever down.  And I said –

 

He must’ve heard me.  Christ!

 

I got even colder, remembering that.  Silly of me I suppose, to react so badly to such a small thing, to something I wasn’t even supposed to have taken as anything other than a stumble.  But I’d seen Jim  _flinch_ when I tried to touch him.  Worse still, now I thought I knew why – and what it meant.  I stared foolishly at him, feeling like I’d been struck -- like Jim had punched me in the gut.  I felt half sick with shame.  Not for what I felt.  I’d never been ashamed of who I was, or of how I felt about Jim.  How could love like that be wrong?  But I’d never wanted him to know, because he wouldn’t understand.  Having him find out after all these years because of a mistake I’d made was humiliating.  Looking at Jim, so close to me yet so far away, I didn’t think I’d ever be entirely free of that feeling again.

 

I’d been stupid.  I’d let down my guard because Jim had been shot, and because I’d assumed he hadn’t truly believed Caroline.  I’d opened my mouth when I shouldn’t have, thought I was safe when I wasn’t.  I’d sealed my own fate, and I had no one else to blame.

 

Not Caroline, certainly; and least of all James. 

 

My heart railed against it, though.  It was such a small thing, I thought, despairing.  Just a few words, spoken when Jim was unconscious, after he was shot.  He’d been lying there with his eyes closed, dosed with laudanum, pale, feverish and seemingly quite dead to the world.  Though the doctor in Rend Lake had cleaned out his wound and stitched him up carefully enough, Jim had still developed a slight fever after I got him back to the Wanderer.  It wasn’t unusual after being shot; but it was also something I’d have to watch carefully.  Worried, I’d sat down beside him with a bowl of cool water and a cloth. 

 

It was quiet in the train.  Too quiet.  So I’d started to talk to Jim, though I knew he couldn’t hear me.  Still, words had poured out of me before I could stop them.  “Jim,” I’d whispered tenderly, while I’d wiped the sweat from his face.  “My dear, darling James.  You have to heal, you must get well.  I don’t know what I’d do without you.”   _You can’t die_.   _You’re my whole life_ , I’d thought.   _You’re everything to me_.   _I love you, James._   I’d wanted to say that too, but I hadn’t quite dared.  I’d had just that much self control. 

 

Now, perversely, bitterly, I wished I had told him, just once.

 

May as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, after all. 

 

But I  _hadn’t_  told James the truth.  It was blackly ironic.  The sum total of my sin wasn’t even an outright declaration of love -- just a fervent wish for Jim to get better.  But for that – an act of compassion, rather than any of the rather morally dubious things I’d done in my life – it seemed I’d lost everything. 

 

Perhaps my mistake had been calling Jim ‘my darling’.  Men don’t do that.  At least, not men such as Jim.  And given that Jim had already been suspicious of me even before he was injured, I suppose even saying that much hadn’t been very smart.  Still.  They were just two words.  Affectionate words, mind you, not curses.  Surely they weren’t so very important, when weighed against all our years of friendship?

 

I reminded myself harshly that it didn’t matter how I weighed those words:  it was James’ opinion that counted.  Jim must’ve felt they were damning.  Despite all appearances, he must’ve been awake enough to hear them, and guessed that they meant something more than just friendship.  Maybe Caroline had made him suspicious of me after all, and my ill –considered words had confirmed his fears.  Jim must’ve finally guessed my secret, the mysterious thing he’d claimed I was hiding from him.  Something I wasn’t allowed to tell him.  Something I wasn’t even allowed to feel.  And he’d been revolted by it.

 

Revolted by  _me_.

 

For a moment, I felt a dull flare of rage.  This, from the man who’d sleep with anything in a skirt!  Jim had never turned any woman down, so far as I could tell.  If she was attractive, it didn’t matter if she was working for Dr. twice-damned Loveless – he’d take her.  Her, but not me.

 

Then my rage fizzled out into a bitterness it seemed I’d felt forever.  It wasn’t Jim’s fault he preferred women, any more than it was mine for preferring men.  There was no blame to lay, and no help for any of it.

 

So I didn’t say anything.  I tried to school my features to the same blankness at which Jim excelled, fought to bury the pain I felt.  Not for Jim’s sake, but for mine.  I didn’t want to force an outright confrontation over the matter.  I felt too raw to bear that.  Besides, I was fairly sure that little flinch of his had been instinctive, not intentional.  Though that, of course, just made my pain even deeper.

 

The knowledge that Jim couldn’t bear my touch any longer, hurt more than any blow I’d ever received.  It was pure agony, like the searing pain of a bullet tearing into me.  In the five years we’d been together, Jim had never flinched from me.  Even when he was drunk, drugged or shot, hell, even after he’d been whipped in that dreadful island prison years ago, he’d always let me tend to him.  He hadn’t expected it at first, and he’d sometimes grumbled a bit, but he’d never really fought me on it.  He’d always let me fix him up, wash him off and bind his wounds when he was hurt.  I’d never thought it was any special mark of favor on his part, mind you.  Just a right he’d’ve granted any partner he trusted.

 

Still, it had meant something to me.  A great deal, in fact. 

 

In that moment, I cursed myself for a fool for losing that, along with everything else.  After all these years of being careful,  _how had I made such a mistake_?  But I knew how.  I’d been thinking more about Jim than I had about myself.  And I’d convinced myself that I’d lulled Jim’s suspicions, or even banished them entirely.  Obviously, I hadn’t.  Instead, by using incautious endearments after he got shot, I’d proven them to be true.

 

I should’ve known, I thought, as a sick sensation roiled inside me.   _God,_   _I should’ve known better_!

 

I thought of Caroline again.  I’d often wondered why she hadn’t tried to exact some sort of revenge on Jim for the abrupt way he’d left her, after she must’ve surely believed that marriage was in the offing.  I remembered how I’d wondered at the time, if Jim had left her at least partly because of her professed dislike for me.

 

Well, she’d had her revenge now, I thought bitterly, if she could’ve but seen it.  Even though she wasn’t in Jim’s life any longer, her words had come between us after all.

 

Her words – oh, God.

 

In that moment, an even worse thought came to me.  I hadn’t even yet realized the full ramifications of my lapse in judgment.  I could already see how it had destroyed the foundations of our friendship, but I hadn’t yet fully considered the havoc it would wreak on our partnership, as well.  But what I’d done – it would make it impossible for us to work together, either. 

 

My gut churned, and I turned cold.  If James couldn’t even bear my touch any longer, then he no longer trusted me.  How could I guard Jim, how could I keep him safe any longer without that?  He would put distance between us, that was inevitable; and by doing that, he’d make himself vulnerable to our enemies. 

 

Christ, I thought, feeling sicker by the minute.  All these years, I’d stayed in the Secret Service partly because I’d been afraid that if I left, Jim might get hurt.  Now the opposite was true.  I’d become a liability to my own partner.  I couldn’t protect Jim anymore.  If I stayed, I could get Jim killed.

 

I would have to leave.

 

_I’ll have to.  Jim will need a new partner_ , I thought, my head swimming.   _Someone else, anyone else but me_.  But the very thought made me sick with grief.

 

I think I may have swayed a little at that point, from the shock of it – or maybe I’d just stayed silent for too long.  All at once, Jim frowned a little and cocked his head.  “Artie?”  He stared at me.  He looked uncertain, even confused. 

 

I realized dimly that some of the horror I felt must’ve shown on my face.  Damn it!  Where was my acting ability when I needed it the most?  I faked a smile to reassure him.  “You sure you’re all right, then?”  My voice came out in a croak, but thankfully, Jim didn’t seem to notice.

 

Jim just nodded.  “Yeah.  I’m sure.”  He winced again, and coughed a little.  Then he tried to smile.  “But maybe I won’t try to make it to the galley just yet.  I could sure use that coffee, though.”

 

I just stared at him, still filled with the horror of what I knew I had to do.

 

Jim’s brow wrinkled again.  “Coffee, Artie?  Please.”

 

I shook myself inwardly.  I had to move, to speak, before Jim figured out what had just happened.  “Coffee,” I mumbled.  “Right.”  
In my pain and confusion, I’d forgotten all about what had dragged Jim from his sickbed in the first place.  But I seized on it as a welcome excuse to turn away from him, and hide my face.  I turned my back and headed for the galley, and prepared to do one of the best bits of acting I’d ever done.  “All right,” I said, trying hard to sound calm.  “If you’ll stay put, I’ll get you some coffee.  I’ll even make you some breakfast.  Pancakes with honey.  How’s that sound?”

 

It wasn’t exactly Shakespeare.  But it was the best I could do, given what had just happened.  I’d managed to push my shock and grief aside enough to think, so it was even a little cunning.  According to the doctor, Jim still wasn’t allowed to eat solid foods.  Which was probably also part of the reason he’d gotten so cranky.  But pancakes wouldn’t hurt him, and my offer seemed to reassure him.  “Sounds good,” he said. 

 

I had to turn away.  Jim sounded so relieved, and I wondered why.  Was it because I’d started acting normal again?  Or because I hadn’t tried to touch him again?

 

I would never call Jim my partner, or try to touch him again while we were together, I thought bleakly.  Which wouldn’t be for long.  I couldn’t bear that, or hide the pain churning inside me from Jim’s sharp eyes much longer, either.  If I could have, I’d have ended our association at that instant.  I wished desperately that I could saddle up my horse and ride away within the hour, before Jim realized that I knew he’d discovered my secret. 

 

But I was trapped, as I always had been.  I couldn’t leave Jim yet.  He was still very weak.  His fever had only just broken but as usual, he’d pushed himself out of bed far too soon.  He could suffer a relapse because of it.  His fever could return, and could even prove deadly if it did.  I’d seen that happen to men during the war, who stubbornly rose from sickbeds too fast.  I cast a covert look at Jim over my shoulder.  He was still white as a sheet, and using the walls for support.  But at least he hadn’t tried to follow me to the kitchen.  That was something, anyhow.  But he was far from recovered, all the same.

 

No, leaving him now was impossible.

 

But I consoled myself with the fact that Jim was incredibly strong, and he’d always been a fast healer.  Within a few days, a week at most, he’d get better.  And then he’d never have to endure my touch, or see my face again.  Soon I could get on my horse and go, without fear of abandoning my partner when he was in need. 

 

It was bitterly clear that James would never need me for anything else, after this. 

 

I forced myself to make plans.  I had to.  I’d lost Jim’s trust, and most likely his respect as well.  I had to get out before he actually came to hate me.

 

_I should’ve known it would come to this_ , I thought bleakly.  I remembered how I’d felt, the day that Jim got shot.  That I couldn’t take this anymore -- watching him chase women, and even pretending to do it myself, when all I wanted was him.

 

Only a few more days, I promised myself, as I reached for a kettle to boil water in, for coffee.  I’d stay with Jim for a few more days.  Do this one last thing for him.  Then as soon as he’d truly recovered, I’d wire Colonel Richmond my resignation, and I’d be gone.

 

But for now… 

 

_James_ , I thought, and his name was a silent scream.

 

With hands that trembled, I put water on to heat for coffee, and pulled out flour and honey to make pancakes for Jim, one last time.

 

**********************************************************************************

 

It wasn’t quite dawn when I rode away from the Wanderer, and James West, for the last time.  I lit a lamp in the stable car, and saddled my horse with unsteady hands.  I tied my bags to my saddle, lowered the ramp as quietly as I could, blew the lamp out again, then walked Flame down the ramp slowly, so the sound of his hooves wouldn’t rouse Jim from sleep.  Once we were on the ground, I mounted up and rode away quietly.  Luckily for me, though Jim was almost entirely healed from his gunshot wound, he still slept late in the mornings.  That proved my salvation, allowing me to slip away unnoticed.

 

Our train had been sitting on the rails near Rend Lake, Illinois.  While Jim slept, I headed Flame northwest.  I’d chosen my direction carefully, while poring over a map the night before.  The lay of the land was relatively flat that way at first, which suited me fine.  And if I kept going, I’d reach the Kaskaskia River fairly soon.  From there, it was only a few days’ ride north to St. Louis, Missouri, which was the nearest city of any size.  It would be a perfect place to sell Flame, alter my appearance and get rid of any pursuit, if Jim was inclined to try it.

 

In an effort to keep from thinking of Jim, I leaned over and patted Flame’s neck.  He nickered softly at me.  Flame was a good horse, quiet, steady and very strong.  He could run for days without faltering.  But I knew I couldn’t keep him much longer.  His looks were too distinctive, and he’d make me too easy to trace.  I regretted the need to sell him, though.  For one thing, I’d miss him.  He was my last link to my old life – to Jim.  For another, I’d have to buy another horse sooner or later, and I’d never been much good at picking out horses.  James was a much better judge of horseflesh than I could ever hope to be, and he’d chosen horses for me for years. 

 

Better get used to picking out your own horses again, I told myself harshly.  Jim won’t be around to help with that – or with anything, anymore.

 

Grief washed over me then, sudden and deep.  I’d tried not to think of Jim, but it seemed like every thought led straight back to him.

 

I thought of the day he’d been shot.  Part of me knew then, that this day was coming.  That part of me had been slowly dying inside for years, every time Jim went off with a woman.  There was only so much a man could take, and I’d suffered years of that.  Enough to last me a lifetime. 

 

Flame cocked an ear back at me, as if he somehow sensed my sadness.  I consoled myself a little with the thought that for a few days, at any rate, I’d still have one familiar companion. 

 

I kept Flame to a fast walk at first, unwilling to risk injuring him by riding too quickly in the dark.  But as soon as the sun came up, I urged him to a steady, ground-eating gallop.  The pace forced me to concentrate on my seat, which was probably a good thing.  It kept me from thinking too much.

 

But it didn’t stop me from feeling.  My heart felt heavy, like a stone in my chest.  And small wonder; I was riding away from everything that mattered to me in the world.

 

I tried to tell myself that I shouldn’t feel so badly about it.  After all, hadn’t I imagined doing just this many times in the past few years?  Hadn’t I longed for the freedom to go?  To leave the life with Jim that held so many dangers and temptations behind me, and start anew on my own?  And what chance did I have to be truly happy, if I stayed with Jim?  Hadn’t I just been fooling myself all those years, hoping for something that I now knew could never be?  Wanting something from James that he could never give me?

 

All of that was true.  And given all of that, I should’ve felt happy.  Or at least relieved.

 

Still, my vision blurred and my cheeks were soon wet as I rode away. 

 

_James_ , I thought, anguished.  I’d stolen into his room last night, while he slept.  I must’ve stood near his bed for several hours, leaning back against the wall of his compartment, hidden in shadows, staring at him.  A half moon had cast a faint light on his face, silvering his high cheekbones and softening his mouth.  I’d never seen another man so beautiful.  I’d never known another man so extraordinary.  I’d ached to kiss him, to whisper how much I loved him; or even just to reach out and touch him, one last time.  But I told myself sternly that such melodrama was beneath me.  Even stealing into his room as I had was sentimental and foolish of me, no doubt.  But I had to look my fill at him, had to give myself that much, at least.  I knew it would be the last time I ever saw him. 

 

I hadn’t said goodbye to Jim.  I couldn’t.  I’d told myself I just didn’t want to risk a tedious, pointless confrontation that would serve no purpose, since there was nothing Jim could’ve said that would’ve changed my mind.  But maybe that wasn’t the truth.  Maybe I was afraid that actually saying the words to him, seeing his face after I told him, would break my heart beyond all hope of mending.  Or maybe I feared something even worse.  Given what he now knew, or at least guessed about me, I wasn’t sure how Jim would react to me leaving.  So it was possible that I’d avoided saying goodbye out of cowardice.  Riding away from him forever was hard enough.  I’m not sure what I might’ve done if I’d seen something other than sadness or anger in his eyes, at our parting.  If I’d told James that I was leaving and he’d showed signs of relief, who knows? 

 

I might’ve turned my gun on myself, instead of just riding away.

 

‘Tis a far, far better thing I do,’ I told myself grimly, stealing a quote from Dickens as I rode onward.  It would be better for Jim, certainly.  He could find a woman now.  Get married, have a family.  A boy, with beautiful, fey eyes like his.  A little girl with hair like her mother’s.  Hell, maybe one day he’d even go into politics.  Either way, he could make a better life for himself without me around. 

 

But when I tried yet again to convince myself that our parting would be better for me as well, I failed.  I couldn’t imagine what would life would be like now, without him.  I thought of a line from another of Mr. Dickens’ books:  “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”

 

Even literature, for once, couldn’t lighten my despair.  I was leaving behind the best of times.  I could only hope I wasn’t heading for my worst.

 

I had no intention of staying long in St. Louis.  But I had no real idea what my eventual destination would be.  It didn’t really matter.  Somewhere out west, I supposed.  I’d figure out something later, when I was in a better frame of mind.  The matter wasn’t urgent.  Luckily, we’d been paid recently, so I had plenty of cash in my saddlebag.  And after all my years in the Service, I had lots of money stashed away elsewhere, as well.  We’d always been well paid, and I’d never spent much of my earnings.  While we’d traveled the country on our missions, I’d deposited money in bank accounts in several western states under different names, just in case I ever needed to disappear.  Since the Secret Service was headquartered in Washington, and I was far better known in the East than I was out west, I’d always figured that the West would be a better place to vanish.  Besides, with my many varied skills, earning more money wouldn’t be difficult.

 

I had all the time in the world, now, to decide what I’d do next.  Once I hit on a place where I wanted to stay for more than a few days, I’d wire away for more money.  For the moment, I just wanted to put as many miles between me and the Wanderer as I could, before my partner – no, my  _former_ partner, I corrected myself bitterly – discovered that I’d gone.

 

A melancholy song ran through my mind as I rode.

 

_If you miss the train I’m on_  

_You will know that I am gone_  

_You will hear the whistle blow a hundred miles_ … 

 

I swallowed.  I’d become so familiar with the Wanderer that I could distinguish the sound of its whistle from more than a mile away.  It’d been my only home for years.

 

Well.  Time for a change then, old son, I told myself.

 

It didn’t help. 

 

_Lord, I’m one_  

_Lord, I’m two_  

_Lord, I’m three,_  

_Lord I’m four,_  

_Lord I’m five hundred miles away from home_. 

 

Not yet, but give me a few days, and I would be.

 

Now that Jim had guessed my secret, I didn’t really expect that he’d come looking for me.  Though he was mostly healed now, he was still a bit weak.  Still, Jim could be incredibly stubborn; and he had a temper.  Never mind that leaving was my choice and my right.  I knew damn well that Jim wouldn’t be happy about the fact that I’d snuck away without giving him a chance to argue about it.  He’d always loved being in control and having the upper hand.  So I couldn’t be sure that he wouldn’t try to follow me out of anger.  Or maybe he had some crazy notion that we could still work together, despite what he’d found out about me.  I knew better.  The way he’d shrank from my touch had put the lie to that, more surely than any words he could ever say.

 

No matter his reasons, it wouldn’t do Jim any good to follow me.  I’d made up my mind to cut all ties with him and the Secret Service, and start my life over.  There was no sense drawing out the pain of leaving James.  I had to get it over quickly, or I wouldn’t survive it.  Which meant that I’d have to disappear rather thoroughly, just in case.

 

It was rather ironic, really.  I suppose if things had been different, it might’ve even seemed funny to me.  But the truth was, given my skills as an actor, and all that I’d learned about disguises and ways for fugitives to disappear as a spy during the war and later with the Secret Service, you could almost say that I’d been trained to vanish into thin air. 

 

And so I did.

 

**************************************************************************

 

At first, rage drove me after Artie.  I was stunned that he’d left me; and even more shocked by how he’d done it.  It couldn’t believe that after all our years as friends and partners, Artie had snuck away from me without a word of explanation, or even a goodbye.  He’d left like a thief in the night.  Like a  _coward_ , I’d thought bitterly.  It made me furious.  It was a blow to my pride that he’d snuck out right under my nose, too, when I was supposedly one of the best agents the Secret Service had. 

 

Then again, the other best agent was – or had been – Artie himself.

 

The day after Artie left, after telegraphing Colonel Richmond about the situation and learning of Artie’s abrupt, mysterious resignation, I quit the Secret Service by telegraph myself.  Then I rode off in a fine hot lather of rage, looking for Artie. 

 

Though Col. Richmond was furious with both of us, President Grant understood.  Artie had been my partner for years, and the President, former soldier that he was, understood how much that meant to me.  I even managed to persuade him to get Col. Richmond to help me search for Artie, if only in a limited way.  Artie was an extremely valuable agent, whom neither of them wanted to lose.  So I telegraphed President Grant that if he let me use some of the Secret Service’s resources to locate Artie, I’d find him and convince him to come back to the  Service if I could.  And I promised Colonel Richmond that if I found Artie and he agreed to come back, I’d come back with him.  I’d’ve probably promised the devil my soul, in exchange for help in getting Artie back. 

 

In the end, after a flurry of telegrams back and forth, even though Artie had already left and I was leaving their employ myself, both President Grant and Col. Richmond agreed to my terms, in the hope that they’d eventually get both of us back.

 

That was what I told Grant and Richmond, anyway.  I had other ideas at first, about what I’d really do to Artie when I tracked him down. 

 

But fortunately for my partner, all I found at first was Artie’s horse.  Flame was pretty distinctive.  I knew that a chestnut gelding with a finely shaped head, a blaze on his nose, a white mark on the right side of his neck and three white feet wouldn’t be hard to trace.  So once I’d tracked Artie far enough to guess where he was heading, I telegraphed a description of him and Flame ahead to every town within 200 miles north and west of Rend Lake, including St. Louis, Missouri, along with instructions to detain Artie for questioning if he was sighted. 

 

Artie knew I could trace Flame too, though; and he was quicker. 

 

I managed to track Artie to the Kaskaskia River.  He’d fed and watered Flame in a small town there, and someone remembered him, so I knew he hadn’t stopped long enough to change his appearance yet.  That gave me hope.  In the next town northwest of that, I learned via telegraph that he’d sold Flame to the owner of a livery stable in St. Louis.  Once I got that message, I headed on to St. Louis at full gallop. 

 

I half killed myself to do it, but I got there just two days after Artie -- for all the good it did me.  Unfortunately, the man Artie had sold his gelding to had no idea where Artie was going next.  Neither did I.  Artie might’ve bought another horse and kept on riding, but he hadn’t bought one in St. Louis.  Not using his real name, anyway.  I made sure of that, by spending another day checking around at all the livery stables in town.  I paid some boys to carry messages to and from the stables I couldn’t get to myself, but neither they nor I turned up anything.  The fact that Artie hadn’t bought another horse from any of the livery stables there didn’t mean much, though.  He could’ve used an assumed name, or bought one from someone else – or stolen one, if he were desperate enough.  Or taken a stage or even headed out on foot, though that wasn’t likely. 

 

I wasn’t sure where to go from there.  But seeing Artie’s horse woke something in me, something I wasn’t ready to face yet.  All I knew was, despite my rage, I couldn’t leave Artie’s horse behind.  Though my stallion Hawk was worth much more, and I was fond of him too, I traded him for Flame and a rather large amount of cash.  I wasn’t sure why I felt so compelled to do it, but I did.  I think I had some idea of annoying Artie when I found him, by riding in on his old horse and showing him how close I’d been on his trail, all along.  Or maybe I thought it would impress him when I found him again.  I’m not sure.

 

Just goes to show how rattled I was, at the time.

 

In any case, Artie’s trail turned cold after that.  Though I checked around in the vicinity of where he’d sold Flame, and then widened my search to the better hotels, theaters and bars in St. Louis, I couldn’t find any further trace of him.  I searched for three days, left no stone unturned, but came up tired and empty-handed.  It seemed like no one had seen Artie, once he’d sold Flame.

 

It was frustrating, but not surprising.  St. Louis was a big city.  Easy to get lost in, and easy to get out of without being noticed.  If he’d gotten another horse, Artie could’ve ridden off in any direction.  Even if he were on foot, he could’ve hopped on a stage and gone anywhere.  I checked all the stages that’d left recently for any sign of him, but none of the drivers could remember taking on a passenger of Artie’s description.  Given Artie’s skill at disguise, though, that didn’t mean he hadn’t left that way.

 

After only six days of searching, I was about ready to drop; and I’d already reached a dead end.  Even with the use of my Secret Service contacts, and all my expertise in tracking men down, I couldn’t find Artemus Gordon.  But I didn’t give up.  If anything, my initial failure only made me even more determined.  I told myself that my own partner had made me look ridiculous -- and I couldn’t have that.  I told myself that Artie owed me.  Damn right he did!  He owed me an explanation, at the very least, for leaving me without a word.  An apology would’ve been more like it.

 

To say that I was angry with Artemus didn’t do it justice.  Once I realized that he’d managed to slip away completely, and that he’d used the fact that I wasn’t quite recovered from my gunshot wound to do it, a cold, deadly fury settled over me.  I vowed I’d find Artie again, and get the truth out of him about why he’d left -- even if I had to beat it out of him.  In fact, by that point, I was starting to hope that I got to beat it out of him.

 

Then I’d force him to come back, whether he liked it or not.

 

So I told myself, in the beginning. 

 

************************************************************************* 

My fury at Artie lasted about a month.  Then it blew away, like dried leaves in a fall wind. 

 

I’d gone to sleep by my campfire one night cursing Artie, as I’d gotten in the habit of doing then.  Resenting him for causing me to leave a job I’d loved and the home I’d found on the Wanderer, to go chasing after him like this.  I was in such a black mood, it took me a long time to relax enough to fall asleep. 

 

The next morning, I half woke before dawn, shivering.  I was just awake enough to know that I’d pulled my blanket half off in my sleep.  My back was uncovered and freezing.  I rolled backward, instinctively seeking a familiar warmth.  I didn’t find it, so I reached out, groping blindly for it.  “Artie?” I muttered sleepily.

 

When no one answered, I blinked and turned over.  When I found myself alone, I sat up, alarmed. 

 

_Where’s Artie?_

Christ.  Suddenly, memory came back in a painful rush.  Artie was gone.  He’d left weeks ago, and I was still searching for him.  I’d bedded down on a rocky outcropping some miles west of Joplin, Missouri.  My fire had sputtered out during the night.  It was cold, and so damn quiet. 

 

I laid back down, shivering, and pulled my blanket up around my neck.  I never used to get so cold when Artie and I were out on the trail.  On chilly nights, we’d always bedded down back to back under a blanket.  I’d awakened many times with an arm thrown across him, or both arms around him, or with his around me.  Artie’s big body radiated heat like a stove, and he’d always kept me warm.  

 

Lying there in the freezing dark, I felt as lonely as I had the morning Artie had left.  I felt like I was the only man left in the whole world. 

 

Artie would’ve made a joke of it, I knew.  He’d’ve stoked up the fire, made coffee, called me “James my boy,” and made me laugh; and somehow everything would’ve seemed okay.  But he wasn’t there to do it.  He’d snuck off like a thief, I reminded myself blackly.   _Like a coward_ , I thought again, bitterness churning inside me, as dark as my rage.

 

Then, strangely, while I laid there almost hating Artie, I remembered something Dr. Loveless had once said about him.  Loveless had held me captive at the time, but he’d known that Artie would be coming for me.  He’d said, “I know Artemus Gordon.  And with Mr. West here and in jeopardy, he won’t be very far away.  It’s a quality called loyalty.  One of the nobler emotions.”

 

That memory gave me a jolt.  Evil though Loveless was, he’d still seen how loyal Artie was to me.  How had I forgotten that, even for a moment?

 

Memories suddenly filled my head, of my friendship with Artie.  All the times he’d cared for me, bound up my wounds, cheerfully endured my foul temper, made me laugh.  The way he’d always backed me up through deadly danger – how he’d saved my life, more times than I could count.  In all the years I’d known him, Artie had never done anything to hurt me.

 

_So Artie didn’t leave to hurt me, either_.

 

It was simple, even obvious.  If I hadn’t been so selfish, I would’ve realized it sooner.  And maybe if rage hadn’t completely blinded me too, I would have.

 

I turned the idea over in my mind, still half unwilling to give Artie so much credit, when he’d made me so angry.  Still, I followed the thought, wondering where the insight might take me.  Remembering how often and how devotedly Artie had cared for me in the past, it did seem less than likely that he’d left to deliberately injure me.  Artie just wouldn’t do that.  For the first time, it occurred to me that Artie might’ve even been trying, in some way I didn’t understand, to  _spare_  me pain by leaving.  Given my partner’s character, that would be more likely than the malice and thoughtlessness I’d been ascribing to him, these past few days.  Maybe Artie had somehow thought he was making a clean break for my sake, that his leaving would pain me less that way. 

 

That would be like Artie.

 

A wave of shame swept over me.  Ever since he left, I’d been acting like a child, like a fool.  Sulking, pouting and cursing Artie’s name, nursing dark thoughts of revenge against him.  Even dreaming darkly of beating him when I caught up with him, for the cardinal sin of leaving me.  As if I owned the man! 

 

I shifted under my blankets, guilty, almost mortified with shame.  For the first time in my life, I’d let emotion take me over.  Like a spoiled, selfish brat deprived of his favorite toy, I’d thought only of myself.  But what about Artie?  What could’ve happened, to make him leave like that?  It wasn’t the first time I’d wondered that, of course.  But it was the first time I’d done so without being blinded by rage.  I realized that Artie must’ve had a reason, and it must’ve been something dire.  He must’ve been extremely hard-pressed, to decide that resigning and stealing away without a word to me was his only choice.

 

_God, Artie – I’m sorry_.

 

What an idiot I’d been, cursing my partner and nursing a grudge against him, when I should’ve been trying to figure out what had driven Artie from my side instead.  Rage accomplished nothing.  But reason and my memories of my partner, my knowledge of his character and my affection for him – those things might help me find him again. 

 

Shame and guilt drove the worst of my rage away, like so much mist.

 

What remained, was all I felt for Artie.  So much…  It swelled inside of me painfully, squeezing my chest until I could hardly breathe.  I missed Artie so much, then, that I could hardly stand it.  He should’ve been there beside me, solid, strong and amusing, like always.  Instead, I was alone; and I knew I might never see Artie again. 

 

Now that my rage had burned away and I could reason again, I tried to distract myself from the pain of his loss, by figuring out why he’d left.  One thing came to me quickly:  Artie wouldn’t’ve left unless he’d felt he had to.  And if his leaving had nothing to do with me, then he’d’ve told me why he was going.  Since he hadn’t, that meant he must’ve left at least partly because of me.  I still couldn’t imagine what his reason was, but it must’ve had something to do with me. 

 

I closed my eyes.  That insight was another blow.  But somehow, it wasn’t a complete shock.  Maybe I’d sensed that all along, I just hadn’t wanted to face it.  Anger was so much easier, so much simpler than such painful self-examination.  But it’d kept me from seeing the truth.

 

Now that I had, I felt such anguish, I curled up on the ground like I’d been kicked.  I was partly to blame, for losing the one thing in my life that really mattered.  The one person I cared about more than anyone else.  Somehow, I’d had something to do with driving my own partner away.

 

_What if I never find Artie again?_

A cold hand gripped my heart.  I tried to imagine living my whole life without him, and shuddered at the bleak emptiness of such a prospect.  I couldn’t see anything but darkness in a future like that. 

 

Once again, Artie had taught me what it was to fear.

 

My eyes stung then, suddenly and fiercely.  I hadn’t felt so empty or so scared since the worst moments of the war.  I blinked hard, fearing that if I didn’t, I might start crying.  But I’d had enough, that night, of behaving like a child.  So I wrapped my blanket around my shoulders, and forced myself to get up and rebuild my fire instead.  At least it broke the silence.

 

_I’ll find him_ , I told myself fiercely, staring moodily into the flames.  I’ve always been good at getting what I wanted, and I’d never wanted anything more than I wanted to get Artie back. 

 

_I’ll find him, or die trying_. 

 

************************************************************************

  

After I left St. Louis, I drifted west for months, wherever my whims or the wind took me.  I never stayed in one place for more than a few weeks, and now that I’d quit calling myself Artemus Gordon, I seldom used a name for much longer than that, either.  I hadn’t decided on a destination, and I didn’t worry about it.  I knew that in time, something would come to me.  Until it did, I’d just keep moving.  I tried out towns for size along the way, seeing what they had to offer. 

 

Once or twice, I even tried to ease my loneliness a little while I wandered.

 

One afternoon in Wichita, my hay fever kicked up and I’d started sneezing, so I couldn’t amuse myself playing cards.  I strolled down the street, not really knowing where I was going.  Somehow, I wound up at the train station.  I watched a big steam engine come puffing in.  I knew I shouldn’t be there.  I’d been avoiding trains since –

 

But I couldn’t seem to help myself.  I stood there and watched as the passengers got off, and more got on.  For some reason, I found myself searching their faces.  I told myself I wasn’t looking for anyone in particular.  I was just observing people, as actors do.  Then I heard that damn song again in my head.  The one that kept running through my mind, the day I left Jim. 

 

_Not a shirt on my back, not a penny to my name,  
Lord I can't go back home this-a-way_.

  

I could never go back home, no matter what.

 

Pain lanced through me in spite of myself.  I’d been foolish to come here, and I knew it.  Unlike the poor man in the song, I had money and good clothes; but I didn’t need reminding that I couldn’t go home anymore.

 

I turned on my heel, walked away from the station and into the first saloon I could find.  I had a whiskey or two, and mercifully, my sneezing subsided.  I sat and listened to some music, and after awhile, my melancholy eased too.  The piano player, a big man named Ben, was pretty good; and for once, the piano was fairly new and in tune.  I drifted closer, laid some coins on top of the piano, and made a few requests.  “Do you know ‘Beautiful Dreamer’?”

 

As it turned out, Ben did.  I went back to my table and was soon tapping my boots to the music and even singing along, my earlier foolishness forgotten.  I had a few more drinks, too.  Quite a few.  It was the first time I’d really enjoyed myself in some time, so I stayed long enough to get a little drunk.  Only a little, because although I have a tremendous capacity for alcohol, I didn’t have Jim there to watch my back anymore.  So while it would take a lot more liquor to really make me vulnerable, I wasn’t comfortable with pushing my limits to the full in such a public place, when I was alone.

 

Alone…

 

I took another sip or two, almost angrily.  I’d just managed to banish my earlier blues.  I had no interest in revisiting them.  I searched for a distraction.  There were several painted ladies present, so I watched them for awhile.  They were refreshingly pretty, not used-up looking like a lot of their sisters.  And by the time one of them, a slender redhead with blue eyes and smooth pale skin, drifted over to the piano, I was feeling a little less pain. 

 

“Come on, Ben,” she smiled at the piano player.  Then she leaned over to murmur something to him that I couldn’t make out.

 

Ben smiled at her warmly.  “Sure, Irish,” he answered.  She’d obviously made a request, and he started to play it.

 

But as the familiar notes filled my ears, I froze and stared down into my glass.  I felt like the Fates were conspiring against me.  The mellow, happy mood the whiskey had given me vanished. 

 

I recognized the melody, of course -- I’d played it often enough myself. 

 

It was “Shenandoah”.  One of Jim’s favorite songs. 

  

************************************************************************************ 

Once I realized I must be partly to blame for losing Artie, my blind rage went away.  But the loneliness that took its place never did.  It drove me on, as relentless a spur as my anger had been.  It burrowed inside me, icing my blood, hardening the marrow of my bones.  It carved away at me little by little, hollowing me out inside, where no one could see.  I grew harder, colder, more impatient.  I got in fights when I didn’t have to now, something I’d never done before.  I wasn’t sure why.  I told myself I just wanted some excitement. 

 

But one night, lying in a cheap hotel room in Oklahoma, my knuckles split, my hands bruised from some brawl and my whole body aching, it came to me -- getting hurt like that was the only time anything eclipsed the pain of losing Artie.

 

I knew what Artie would’ve said:   _James, you’re a stubborn fool._  

 

I tried not to get in so many fights after that.

 

In the evenings out on the trail, I tried to keep busy by teaching Flame all the tricks I’d once taught Hawk.  How to come when I whistled, to stay close by if I fell off (in case I got shot out of the saddle), and not to shy at loud noises like gunshots.  He was a good horse, and he was learning.  Not as fast as Hawk had, but then Hawk had been unusually smart.  So I tried to be patient with Flame.  Sometimes I whittled, or sang a little. 

 

But every day as I rode, there was an empty place beside me.  Sometimes, if I squinted, I could almost see a shadow there, could almost see broad shoulders and the glint of teeth in a smile.  Sometimes, when the wind blew, I could almost hear phantom laughter.

 

Almost.

 

But most of the time, the wind seemed to blow right through me.  It was like Artie cut a hole inside me when he left, and nothing but finding him would ever sew it back up. 

 

After I left St. Louis, I’d headed northwest for awhile, the way Artie’d headed when he left the train.  The direction he’d taken was the only clue I had about where he might go.  But since Artie could change direction at any time, that wasn’t much of a clue.  I didn’t have much hope of finding him.  All I had to go on was my knowledge of my old partner, and the only aid I had in looking for him was the Secret Service.  I told myself that would have to be enough.

 

I used my wits, too.  I tried to guess where Artie might go, and what he might do.  Not an easy task, with such a complex man and such a huge country for him to hide in.  But I had to start somewhere, and I’d learned long ago that hunting men differed from hunting animals.  Animals had simple needs.  They always headed for food or water.  Men were more complicated.  When they were on the run, unless a posse was hot on their trail, they’d usually seek out friends or loved ones instead.

 

I’d already telegraphed Lily Fortune by then, and all of Artie’s other friends whose names I knew.  There were lots of them, but I knew Artie had many more whose names I’d never learned.  Artie had the widest circle of friends and acquaintances of any man I’d ever met.  In any case, none of the people I sent telegrams to had seen him.  Or if they had, they weren’t willing to tell me.  Another dead end.  I briefly considered tracking Lily down, but eventually rejected the idea as too obvious.  Artie knew that I knew where she was; and Lily was far too honest and forthright to keep it from me, if she’d seen him.  He wouldn’t risk going to her.

 

So I thought about what else Artie loved.  Acting was first on that list.  Now that he’d quit the Secret Service, it seemed likely he’d go back to that profession.  Once I thought of that, I sent some more telegrams.  This time to Colonel Richmond.  I asked him to circulate Artie’s picture to his agents, and to have his men send me reports, any time they learned of an actor of Artie’s height and build who’d recently arrived in the towns they were operating in.  The Colonel agreed.  Artie could disguise his face or wear a wig, but even he would have trouble disguising his height and build for any great length of time.  I would’ve had them watch for a man with Artie’s dragon tattoo as well, but it was on his upper arm, and always hidden under his shirts.  Besides, it could easily be covered with makeup, and Artie was a master at that. 

 

I toyed with the idea of having the Colonel put out a phony wanted poster for Artie, too.  I’d made one up once for myself, and I thought of that right after Artie left.  But I wasn’t sure Col. Richmond would agree.  If we made Artie feel like a wanted criminal, he’d see that as cheating, and it would make him furious.  So even if we found him, it wasn’t likely we could ever persuade him to come back to the Secret Service after that.  Also, no matter how small a reward we offered for him, we’d run the risk that some idiot might end up hurting or even killing Artie to collect it.  Furious though I was with my old partner, I couldn’t risk that.  I stuck with looking for actors instead. 

 

The one advantage I had was time.  That at least was on my side.  Artie might not think that I’d look very hard for him.  He’d probably assume that after a short initial search, I’d give up and just go on with my life.  He had no way of knowing that I’d quit the Secret Service to search for him, that I’d made finding him my one purpose in life, and that I had no intention of ever giving up.  In the end, I hoped that time and sheer determination would allow me to catch up with him again.  Artie wouldn’t run or hide from me forever.  He wouldn’t think he had to.  Sooner or later, even a master of disguise like him would eventually drop his guard, take off his disguise and settle somewhere, thinking he was safe.  He’d relax and start going about as himself again.  Or so I hoped.  Then I’d find him. 

 

I kept the Colonel informed of my location by telegraph while I searched, so he and his agents would know where to telegraph any reports on actors of interest.  I had to hope that one of them would turn out to be my old partner. 

 

It was all I could think of to do.  Artie had already sold his horse, and I knew he’d likely change his name as well, to keep anyone from finding him.  He was brilliant and devious as hell; and he knew me as well as I knew him.  He knew how I thought, and could probably outwit me.  He might turn east or in some other direction, or do something completely uncharacteristic, just to throw me or anyone else following him off his trail.  Or he might try to hide out, at least for awhile, in a small town.

 

I considered that possibility, but eventually discarded it.

 

Artie had never liked small towns much.  They bored him.  He loved culture and socializing, and I couldn’t see him choosing to stay in a place so small that he’d be denied either of those things.  At least, not for long.  I figured if Artie ever decided to settle down, he’d stick to big cities, or at least fair-sized towns.  He was also too memorable to blend into some little cow-town for very long.  Not even Artie could wear a disguise forever; and once he dropped it, a man with his breadth of knowledge and rare gifts would stick out like a sore thumb there.  In a small town, people would gossip about a man like that.  He’d get noticed.  But in a larger town, he could blend in.  Artie would see that as clearly as I did.

 

So I stuck to larger cities and towns while I searched for him. 

 

************************************************************** 

 

I took a deep drink, but it didn’t make me feel any better.  I sighed to myself.  It was a sad day indeed, when a good whiskey in a nice saloon couldn’t make me feel better.  But before I knew it, I’d gotten to my feet.  I picked up my hat, meaning to head for the door.  I just didn’t want to hear that song…

 

But then Irish started to sing.  “Oh Shenandoah, I long to hear you… Away, you rolling river…”

 

I froze.  Her voice was lovely.  Untrained, but sweet and pure for all that.  It cut through me, rooting me to the spot somehow.  I sat back down slowly, caught by it, despite the sad memories the song called forth.  She was just a calico girl, and yet.  Her voice was like sunlight, sweet as a lark in a morning meadow.  And I wasn’t the only one who was moved by it.  As she sang, the whole bar quieted down, and soon nearly every man present sat rapt, listening to her sing.

 

Half an hour later, some time after she’d finished several more songs to rousing applause, I took ‘Irish’ upstairs.  I wasn’t sure why she’d picked me out of the crowd of men who’d buzzed round her after she sang, but I was glad she did.  She had light blue eyes, that calico girl with the sweet, sweet voice.  She made me think of James, and it hurt; but in a strange way, I was grateful to her for it, too.  It would make it easier, I thought, for me to pretend.

 

As it turned out, ‘Irish’ was just a nickname she’d been given, because of her accent.  Her real name, she told me, was Elizabeth.  “Lizzy for short,” she smiled.  It was probably a lie, but since I wasn’t using my real name either, and I was also probably a more practiced liar than she, I could hardly object. 

 

“Charmed,” I smiled, and that was true.  I didn’t really care what her real name was.  When I’d entered the saloon, I’d had no intention of taking anyone to bed.  I hadn’t even touched a woman in some time.  Yet there I was, pulled in by her sweet voice and her light blue eyes.

 

Lizzy was soft and pretty, and willing enough; and I liked the hint of a brogue in her voice.  But when I got her undressed and thrust into her and she moaned under me, the sound was so false, so practiced that sorrow welled up in me, like a slow surge of dirty water.  I didn’t want that, didn’t want someone I had to pay to feign desire.  I wanted –

 

My heart almost seized with the force of my longing, and my eyes filled with tears.  Jesus God, how I still wanted him.  I closed my eyes, embarrassed, not wanting Lizzy to see me like this.  Here I was, buried inside of a pretty woman, and I still couldn’t get Jim off my mind.  Hell of a time, I thought ruefully, to be thinking of your ex-partner.

 

“You okay, sugar?”

 

I didn’t even realize that I’d stopped moving.  I forced my eyes open, but avoided hers.  Sweet as she was, I couldn’t bear to look at her just then.  “No.  But it’s not you, Lizzy.”

 

She was quiet for a few minutes.  I was grateful for that.  It gave me the chance to try to force my hopeless feelings back down into the darkness where I’d been keeping them penned since I’d left the Wanderer.  I wrestled with them until they receded, and I didn’t ache quite so badly.

 

Finally, Lizzy reached up and gently petted my hair.  “Keep goin’, honey.  You’re just gettin’ started.”

 

I sighed.  I’d mostly lost my enthusiasm for sex now.  Still, if I left, I’d’ve wasted both my money and her time as well.  I decided that since I didn’t care any longer about pleasing myself, I’d devote myself to pleasing her.  It seemed little enough in return for her kindness, her patience and her marvelous singing.  I started to thrust again, long and slow, taking my time.  She smiled up at me, and I decided to make it last awhile, in return.

 

When I was through, when I’d made sure she found her pleasure and mostly feigned my own, she hugged me and ran her hands through my hair.  “That was nice,” she said softly.  “Real nice.  And you paid for an hour.  We can go again, if you want.”

 

I knew that women in her profession lied often and easily.  Yet somehow, Lizzy sounded sincere.  Like she’d really enjoyed it.  If so, I was glad.  I’d done my best to be gentle and to please her.  She was the first person who I’d felt even a flicker of emotion for, since I left Jim.  Lying there with my heavy head on her breast, I felt nothing but kindness, and even a pang of pity.  I supposed she had little enough of gentleness in her life.  Jim and I had always treated calico girls kindly, but most men didn’t.  My eyes stung again suddenly, catching me by surprise.  I thought I’d gotten hold of myself.  It was ridiculous, I told myself sternly, that the mere thought of him was still potent enough to undo me like this.  I was glad Lizzy couldn’t see my face, but I still felt terribly exposed.  “That’s all right,” I said, not quite steadily.  “There’s no need.”

 

I had needs, all right; but she couldn’t satisfy them. 

 

“Still.  You don’t have to go right away, do you?”  She sounded a little wistful, and her hands moved gently through my hair.  Maybe I reminded her of someone, I thought sadly.  Maybe she’d left someone behind when she left Ireland.  Maybe even someone she loved.  Maybe she was alone now, just like me.

 

I hoped not.  Still, I knew I couldn’t stay there.  Lizzy’s eyes, and her song, had conspired to remind me of things I was trying very hard to forget.  But I was a free man now, freer than I’d been for many years.  I didn’t have to stay anywhere if I didn’t want to.  I could get on my horse and move on the moment I felt like it.  Strangely though, just at that moment, the thought of the wide open road that stretched before me, with no end or home in sight, seemed bleak.  And even though Lizzy wasn’t who I wanted, still her body was soft and sweet, and her embrace was warm.

 

I blinked, and had to swallow before I could speak.  “No,” I said gently.  “I don’t have to go yet.  Not for a little while, anyway.” 

 

***************************************************************

 

After some months, I decided to stop looking for Artie in small towns or even medium-sized ones, unless the Secret Service sent me likely leads to follow there.  Then I had to decide which big cities he might go to.  I made a list, then thought about every place on it some more.  I knew Artie liked Denver, San Francisco, New York and Washington.  I figured New York and Washington were out, though.  Though Artie loved Washington’s social whirl and culture, he disliked politics as much as I did.  Besides, the Secret Service was headquartered there, and he was too well known there.  His risk of being recognized would be too great.  The same thing went for New York.  There were lots of Secret Service agents there, too.  And though Artie liked New York, he’d once told me, “It’s a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there.  There’s too many people, and it’s too crowded.” 

 

So I crossed Washington and New York off of my list.  San Francisco, Chicago and Denver seemed like better possibilities.  San Francisco held all the culture Artie loved, and he’d always likes its beautiful seaside location.  He had friends in the theater there too.  He’d taken vacations there several times, and talked about how much he’d enjoyed it after he did.  The same thing with Denver.  He’d once told me he liked Chicago’s bustle too, and the views there from the shore of Lake Michigan.  But the winters there were too bitter for Artie’s taste. 

 

In the end, I decided to eventually head west to Denver first, then continue on to San Francisco if I didn’t find Artie in Colorado.  I’d save Chicago for last, if I couldn’t find him anywhere else.  The only state I was fairly sure he’d never settle down in was Kansas.  Whenever we went there, his hay fever always played up.

 

But I couldn’t head to Denver right away.  After investigating some leads in Missouri without success, I headed southwest to Texas instead.  The Secret Service had sent me a telegraph about a couple of actors there who could possibly be Artie, either in disguise or using an assumed name.  I had to check them out first.

 

If the leads in Texas didn’t pan out, Colorado was next, then San Francisco if necessary.  But I’d try Denver first, after Texas.  Artie liked Denver, and he had friends in the theaters there.  Hell, Artie seemed to have friends pretty much everywhere.  But Texas was a big state, and it would take me awhile to track down the two leads I had there.  I had to go as far south as Dallas first, and Colorado was a long way back north.   I couldn’t get back to Denver quickly from there on horseback; and San Francisco was much further away still.  And my route wouldn’t necessarily be as straight as a crow flew from point to point, either.  I’d have to detour along the way, to track down every report the Secret Service telegraphed me of a tall actor who was newly come to town – wherever that town might be.

 

I’d been spoiled these past few years, being able to get around the country by train.  Finding Artie on horseback was likely to take some time, I thought grimly.  I’d already been at it for several months.

 

But I had to find out where Artie was; and not because I wanted to beat him or force him to come back, either.  I’d put those thoughts behind me, embarrassed that I’d ever even had them.  Now I just wanted to make sure he was okay, and tell him I was sorry.  I didn’t know why he left, but I was pretty damn sure it wasn’t because I was a great friend to him.  I felt bad about that.  Though we didn’t have a fight or even any harsh words between us, and I’m not a man to take on guilt for no reason, I still thought I must’ve messed things up somehow, that he must’ve left partly because of me. 

 

What had I done, what had I said to drive him away?  I couldn’t imagine what else would’ve made him take off like that in the dark, without one word to me.  Col. Richmond had telegraphed me that the night before he left, Artie had wired to tell him that he was resigning from the Secret Service.  But that was all Artie said.  He didn’t even tell Richmond why he decided to go, and he said nothing to me at all. 

 

But Artie must’ve had a reason.  Probably a really good one, knowing him.  While I was looking for him, I had plenty of time to try to puzzle it out.  During all the years we’d been partners, I could only remember two things about his behavior that seemed a bit strange. 

 

One was those vacations Artie used to take.  He always said he needed to be alone when he went away, or that he was off visiting some actor friends of his.  For a long time, I’d believed him.  But before he’d left for San Francisco that last time, when I’d started asking him questions, he’d seemed uncomfortable, almost angry; and he hadn’t wanted me to come along.  At the time, I’d believed Artie’s reason for that, too:  that I’d be bored by his get-togethers with his theatrical friends.  But after several weeks out on the trail searching for him, it occurred to me that maybe he hadn’t told me the truth.  I’d had a feeling at the time, that Artie was hiding something from me.  Given the way he’d eventually left, I’d obviously been right about that.  I didn’t want to think badly of Artie, but he’d definitely had some secrets.  Maybe he’d had darker reasons for not wanting me along on his trips.  Maybe he’d been doing something he hadn’t wanted me to see, or something he thought I wouldn’t approve of.   I just couldn’t imagine what it might be.

 

The second strange thing I recalled about Artie was the way he looked at me, the first time I got up after I was shot.  That was odd, too.  I’d grown sick of lying around in bed, so after a couple of days, I got up.  Told Artie I wanted a cup of coffee.  He offered to get one for me, but I said I could do it.  But I got up too soon, stumbled a bit in the hallway, and doubled over from the pain.  I almost fell on my face.  It was embarrassing to be that weak; especially in front of Artie.  So when he’d reached out to catch me, I’d pulled away from him.  Though I was still in a lot of pain, I was feeling stubborn, and hadn’t wanted to be fussed over.  I’d wanted to prove to Artie that I could make it to the galley by myself.  The odd thing was, when I pulled away from him, Artie just froze.  He didn’t say a word, but he turned white; and for a few seconds, he got this awful look in his eyes.  At the time, I thought he was just worried about me.  That I’d scared him doubling over like I did, or that he was mad at me for getting out of bed too fast.  Artie tended to fuss over me like a mother hen sometimes, given half a chance.

 

I thought about that morning a lot, on my way to Texas.  Though the incident seemed trivial at first, I came to believe that it had to mean something.  After all, Artie had left just a week later; and it was the only odd thing that had happened, in the time just before he left.  It stood to reason that the two things might be connected.  So I tried hard to remember exactly what had happened that morning.  The truth was, I was in so much pain that I hadn’t been paying close enough attention to Artie.  I’d missed something about him, something important.  When I tried to imagine what it might be, I kept seeing that awful look on Artie’s face when I pulled away from him.  I’d wondered about it at the time, but dismissed it as concern.  I realized then, far too late, that it wasn’t.  Or at least, it wasn’t only that.  I replayed the moment over and over in my head, focusing on Artie’s face.  Seeing it turn white as he stared at me. 

 

Finally, it came to me.  Small wonder I hadn’t recognized that look: on any other man, I’d’ve said it was fear.  I’d never seen Artie terrified, but some powerful emotion had taken hold of him when I’d pulled away from him.  If it wasn’t fear, then maybe it was pain, or even despair.

 

 I just couldn’t understand why he’d felt that way.  It was such a small thing, and Artie was one of the toughest men I’d ever known.  It made no sense, but the more I thought about it, the more I felt I must’ve either scared or hurt him somehow.  Damned if I knew how.  All I did was stumble and refuse his help.  Guess I was being stubborn, getting up so fast like I did, but I’d done that plenty of times before.  I hate laying around, even when I’m hurt.  Although I know Artie didn’t like me pushing myself like that when I was injured, that was nothing new either;  and he’d never pitched a fit about it before.  Maybe I was rude to refuse his help, but if Artie thought so, he hadn’t said it.  He never mentioned what upset him enough to put that look on his face.  I should’ve known something was up just from that, I guess.  Artie usually never had any trouble letting me know if I did something that got his dander up.  But that time, he hadn’t said a word. 

 

After that morning, though, Artie was different.  He fixed me breakfast after like nothing was wrong, but he seemed oddly distracted, like he was thinking hard about something.  After that, he got way too quiet.  He put some distance between us, too.  He just puttered away in his lab by himself, or shut himself up in his sleeping compartment all alone.  Though he made sure I got fed, like always, he didn’t even eat with me if he could avoid it.  He pulled away from me, without telling me why.  And I was so focused on pushing myself to get better so I could get back out in the field working our cases, that I didn’t push him about it.  

 

The next thing I knew, a week later, he was gone.

 

Those two things stuck in my mind, while I rode towards Texas.  Artie’s mysterious vacations, and the way he’d looked that morning after I got shot.  I was sure they added up to something, and I’d spent most of my adult life solving mysteries.  I felt like I should’ve been able to come up with an answer.  One that would help me figure out why Artie had left.  I spent hours, even days thinking about it.  But the mystery hovered just out of my reach. 

 

I couldn’t imagine how those two oddities in Artie’s behavior fit together, or if they even did.  Or what secret could’ve driven Artie to bolt like he had, without a word to anyone.  After all, we’d been through a lot over the years.  We’d seen each other dirty, sick, drunk, wounded, even raving with fever.  Hell, we even visited bawdyhouses together sometimes.  If his reason for leaving had something to do with me, what could Artie have been worried about?  I couldn’t imagine.  Was he worried that I’d find out about something he’d done, and think less of him for it?  The idea puzzled me.  Artie and I were together so much, and I’d never seen him do anything that I thought was really wrong.  If he’d gotten mixed up in something on his vacations alone, what could he have done, that he thought I’d look down on him for? 

 

I thought about that for a long time too, turning the question over and over in my mind.  I considered the usual things that tempted men.  But power held no attractions for Artie, money had never meant much to him either, and women -- well Artie did just fine there.  Better than fine.  Besides, he hadn’t even been seeing anyone seriously before he left.  At least, not so far as I’d known; and it wouldn’t have been like Artie not to tell me if he had been.  I smiled ruefully to myself.  Artie was always pretty vocal about his women.

 

Those first few months while I searched for Artie, I thought about what could have driven him away so much it made my head ache.  But I couldn’t figure it out. 

 

Then, finally, I remembered the war.  What some men did to get by, when there were no women around; and what I’d learned then that others did because they preferred it.  I thought of the gossip I’d always heard about actors, and for the first time, I wondered about Artie.

 

Could he be an invert?

 

The idea shocked me.  It was so odd that it’d never once crossed my mind, in all the years we’d been partnered.  After all, I’d only ever seen Artie with women.  And there’d been quite a few of those.  Hell, we’d even gone upstairs with calico girls together, more than once.  Yeah, I knew that Artie liked women.

 

But for the first time, I wondered if Artie liked men, too.  If his pursuit of women been just something he did to fit in; and if he really preferred men.  If that was what he’d done, when he went off by himself on his vacations:  fuck men.

 

That just didn’t seem possible.

 

Still.  Strange though it seemed, if it were true, it might’ve explained why he’d left.  Men like that were labeled perverts or inverts, and the practice was illegal, and so frowned upon by society that those who did it had to do so in secret.  Even in the Army, though it happened, men kept quiet about it.  It was a hanging offence in some states, especially in the South.  If Artie was like that and had feared discovery, he’d have had good reason to hightail it out.  Though if he was like that, and I’d never guessed it in all the years we were partners, I couldn’t imagine who could’ve found him out.

 

But I was so desperate for answers about why Artie had left, that I considered the theory anyway.  It just seemed too crazy to be true.  For one thing, Artie loved women; and they felt the same way about him.  Every time we went to Washington, all the high society matrons invited him to their fancy balls.  He was handsome, articulate, intelligent and funny, and women flocked around him in droves.  I smiled a little to myself, remembering those parties.  Artie usually had a woman on each arm, and five or six more gathered around him, within minutes of his arrival.  He’d basked in all the feminine attention, too.  He’d often grinned at me slyly, over all those pretty heads. 

 

Artie had only gotten serious about a woman once, that I knew of.  But he’d asked one of his old girlfriends, Lily Fortune, to marry him a few years back.  And if it hadn’t been for our dangerous profession, she’d’ve accepted him, too.  She’d said as much.  If Lily hadn’t been too afraid of losing Artie, he’d’ve been a married man by now.

 

Why would someone who preferred men, attract women like Artie did?  Why would he take women to bed, and why would he ever ask a woman to marry him?

 

An odd thought crossed my mind then.  Caroline Thrace was the only woman I ever knew who hadn’t liked Artie.  I’d never understood why.  She’d said something once about Artie hovering around me all the time.  That was one of the reasons I’d left her as soon as I had.  That girl had had marriage on her mind, and there was no way I’d ever get seriously involved with a woman who disliked Artie.  But I wondered if I’d misunderstood her.  Had she seen something in him that I hadn’t? 

 

No.  I couldn’t believe that.  How could a mere slip of a girl like that, figure out something I didn’t know, about a man I’d known for years?  I shook my head.  She was just a girl I’d dallied with, and who I was never going to see again.  She’d probably just been jealous, and wanted me all to herself.  So what did her opinion matter?

 

After all, I’d been Artie’s partner for years.  We’d both lived and worked together.  In all that time, surely I’d’ve noticed if Artie were like those men I’d once known in the war.  But he wasn’t.  He was even less like the men for hire that I’d seen in bawdyhouses since:  fancy, mincing men with limp wrists, painted faces and odd laughs.  They always looked weak and silly to me; like they’d be no use in a fight.  But Artie was one of the strongest, smartest, most accomplished men I’d ever known.  He was so unlike those painted-up fancy boys that any kind of comparison was laughable.  I’m pretty observant; and in all the years we were together, I never saw Artie so much as look at another man.  He’d never shown the slightest sign that he was interested in them like that. 

 

The whole thing made no sense.  Even if Artie did like men and I’d somehow missed it, then he must’ve always felt that way, though he’d kept it a secret.  But if that were true, since I’d never so much as guessed it myself, close though we were, then what – or who -- would Artie have been afraid of?  Why would he have suddenly decided that he had to leave?

 

No.  I just couldn’t believe that Artie might be an invert.  That theory just didn’t hold water, for a lot of reasons.

 

I’d sensed that something was wrong before he left, all right.  Hell, I’d known that before Artie left for his last vacation to San Francisco.  But Artie wasn’t talking, and I hadn’t known how to make him.  Though Artie usually wasn’t good at covering up his feelings, I hadn’t been sure what was bothering him.  I’d just sensed that something was.  There was an odd tension between us, that I’d never felt before.  Still, when he’d left for San Francisco, all I had were vague notions that he might be lying about something, or thinking of leaving. 

 

I sat back hard in my saddle when I remembered that.

 

Jesus Christ!  Thinking of  _leaving_? The day he’d left, I’d assumed that his departure had been a sudden thing.  But had Artie been thinking of leaving months before?  Before he’d gone to San Francisco? 

 

The idea rocked me. 

 

I cast back in my memory again, to the day before he’d left on that vacation.  I remembered teasing him about it, even asking him outright if something was wrong.  But he just told me I was imagining things.  And when he came back, I was happy to see him, so I let it go.  A few months later I got shot, and after I nearly fell over, Artie started acting strange.  But I was still healing up, and I didn’t have the strength to take him to task about it.  I’d told myself that as soon as I felt better, I’d ask Artie what was going on.  What was the cause of the tension I’d sensed between us, and why he was keeping to himself all of a sudden.  I’d told myself that I wouldn’t let him put me off with excuses any more.  I’d force him to talk.  But I never got the chance.  As soon as I was up and around and able to look after myself again, he took off.  

 

Looking back on it was bitter.  I’d had lots of chances to talk to Artie about whatever was bothering him.  Instead, I’d let it go.  I’d thought I had all the time in the world to fix things.  It was the biggest mistake of my life.

 

I couldn’t believe it, when I found out he’d gone. 

 

I overslept the morning Artie left.  Maybe it was just bad luck, or maybe it happened because I wasn’t quite back to myself yet after being shot.  I’ll never know.  All I know for sure is that when I got up, something was wrong.   The train seemed too quiet.  Though Artie usually had a pot of coffee brewing before I even opened my eyes, I didn’t smell anything that morning.  I didn’t hear him moving around, either.  Uneasy, I’d got up and searched all through the train for Artie.  I couldn’t find him.  And when I’d searched the stable car and saw that his horse and saddle were gone, my uneasiness became alarm.  Artie never went riding just for fun.  I knew instantly that he hadn’t just taken off on a little pleasure jaunt.

 

Even though the evidence suggested it, I couldn’t believe that Artie had just left of his own free will, though.  My head filled with crazy ideas.  Despite the fact that I’d always thought it would be impossible for anyone to get past the alarms Artie had put on every door and window in the Wanderer, I told myself that someone must have.  Maybe I’d somehow slept through an alarm and someone had kidnapped him, and forced Artie to take his own horse, so they could move faster.  Two men on one horse would burden any mount, and no kidnapper would want to risk a delay in his getaway. 

 

Then I thought of Dr. Loveless, and my blood ran cold.  If anyone could get past Artie’s alarms, it would be him.

 

I hadn’t heard of him escaping after the last time Artie and I sent him to prison.  But the thought that he might’ve, and that he could’ve abducted Artie while I slept made me frantic.  I ran to the front of the train to check with the train crew.  Mike the engineer thought he’d heard a horse walked away from the train before sunup, but that was all he knew.  I ran back to Artie’s sleeping compartment then, and checked his closet that time.  Most of Artie’s clothes were gone, along with a lot of his ointments and powders.  I bounded into Artie’s lab next, my heart pounding, my barely healed wound aching.  Most of the tools he used to do his experiments were gone, too. 

 

My wild theory that Artie had been kidnapped seemed less and less likely.  A terrible suspicion was growing in my mind.  But I still couldn’t face what all that was telling me. 

 

I suddenly thought of a way to settle the question.  Shaking, I went back to his compartment a third time, and checked his bookshelf.  I’d watched Artie reading for years, and I knew every book he kept on the train.  I saw at once that there were gaps on his bookshelf now.  I searched the titles, my fingers trembling.  Darwin’s book, “On the Origin of Species”, was gone, along with two others.  An edition of Shakespeare’s plays, and a biography of Leonardo da Vinci. Artie’s three favorite books, the ones he’d once told me he’d never want to be without.   

 

I froze then, as the awful truth hit me.  No kidnapper would’ve bothered taking Artie’s things.  Still less, his heavy books.  So Artie hadn’t been kidnapped --  _he’d left me_.  He’d slipped out quietly, deliberately while I was sleeping, without one word of farewell, taking only his most precious possessions.  I knew, because I checked every inch of the train after that, hoping desperately to at least find a note from him.  I found nothing.

 

Artie had left me, all right.  Without a word, without an explanation, without even so much as a fare-thee-well.  After all those years, he’d just ridden away like I meant nothing to him.  It shocked me more deeply than anything had since the war. 

 

I’d collapsed on the parlor couch, my head ringing with shock, my chest tight with such pain, I could hardly breathe.  I felt like I’d lost a limb.

 

We weren’t just partners, we were the best of friends. 

 

How could he do that?

 

I still didn’t know.

 

And how had I let him?  I wanted to kick myself for being so stupid.  For not speaking up more forcefully, though I’d sensed something amiss, and for letting Artie get away like that.  Ironically, though, our friendship was part of the problem.  It had been so strong for so many years, I hadn’t wanted to believe that something could go that badly wrong between us.

 

But by then, I’d realized that Artie must’ve made up his mind to leave when he turned white that morning that I almost fell, after I got shot.  Whatever it was about that incident that upset him, I think he must’ve wanted to go right after it happened.  Yet he’d stayed with me for another week, taking care of me.

 

God. 

 

Whenever I remembered that, pain tore through me.  I could hardly stand the thought of it – of Artie hurting so much that he felt his only choice was to leave, yet still staying to make sure I recovered before he took off.  But once my initial anger at him wore off and I could think straight again, somehow I felt that was just what he’d done. 

 

Artie cared that much about me – and what did I give him in return?  Somehow, I’d made him feel that he had no choice but to leave me, without even telling me why. 

 

Why, Artie?  Why’d you leave me?   _Why?_   The question filled me, consumed me, drummed inside my head until I thought I’d go crazy from not knowing. 

 

I think sometimes, I did go a little crazy.  Like that time in Texas…

 

I’d just finished tracking down the second actor in Dallas that the Secret Service had telegraphed me about.  He hadn’t turned out to be Artie, either.  His name was Gerald Finton, and he’d never even heard of Artie.  Irrationally, I disliked him for that.  I think the feeling was mutual, or maybe he just grew tired of my questions.  He finally turned me out of his hotel room gruffly.  “I’ve said all I’m going to say.  I’m not this Gordon person you’re looking for.  Now get out!” 

 

He’d turned his back on me then, with obvious contempt. 

 

I’d meant to thank Finton for his time, despite my disappointment.  But that set me off.  That and the way he’d said, “this Gordon person” with a slight sneer, as if any friend of mine would have to be someone crass.  When I heard that, something dark rose in my chest and my hands curled into fists.  I hadn’t exactly been a patient man when Artie was my partner.  Now that I’d lost him, I wasn’t someone you wanted to cross.  It was all I could do to turn away without striking Finton.  Still, seething with anger and frustration though I was, I told myself that at least Finton had agreed to meet me.  He’d answered my questions and I’d been able to assure myself that he wasn’t Artie.  The man was an ass, but he’d done that much for me, at least.  I owed him for it, so I clenched my fists and headed out of his hotel room without a word.

 

As I was shutting his door behind me, I heard Finton bark, “That’s right!  Get out, and don’t come back!”

 

Something inside me snapped.  Finton had just pushed me too far.  I whirled and the next thing I knew, I had him by the throat.  I heard myself growling as I shook him.  Finton’s eyes were wide with terror, and his face was turning red.

 

I realized suddenly, I was choking him.  I froze, stunned at my own loss of control, and over such a minor thing.  I’d shrugged off far more vicious insults.  Hell, I’d been beaten and even tortured, without losing my temper like that.  I couldn’t afford the luxury of a bad temper in the Secret Service.  Besides, Artie wouldn’t’ve liked it.  But I suddenly realized, I’d been losing it a lot lately, and over things that once would’ve seemed trivial.  A chilling thought crossed my mind.  I thought I’d forgiven Artie for leaving, but had I really?  I’d already thought about beating him, and forcing him to come back even if he didn’t want to.  Was I looking for him so I could bring him back, or-- 

 

No.  God, no.  The thought of hurting Artie like this sickened me.

 

My heart was still pounding, but I let Finton go.

 

He pulled away from me, stumbling back, gasping and rubbing at the red marks on his throat.  Marks where my hands had been.  I turned to leave, disgusted with myself.  But then Finton started yelling.  “Help, help!  This man is crazy!  He attacked me, he tried to kill me!”

 

If it hadn’t been my own fault, it might’ve almost been funny.  Finton definitely had a flair for drama.  He put on quite a performance.  Hollered and carried on so much that people had started to spill out of their hotel rooms, gawking at us.

 

I hadn’t stayed to enjoy the show.  I’d gotten the hell out of that hotel, without so much as a backward glance at Finton.  He could’ve gone to the local Sheriff and charged me with assaulting him, after all.  If I stayed, I might’ve been arrested.  I couldn’t afford that.  If Colonel Richmond found out that I’d been brawling about and getting in fights since I’d lost Artie, or that I’d actually attacked an actor I’d thought might be him, he’d withdraw his support; and without the help of the Secret Service, I stood even less of a chance of finding Artie. 

 

Still, even after I’d left town, I couldn’t get the incident out of my mind.  I tried to, but I couldn’t.

 

And the more I remembered it, the more that same black, bitter frustration filled me.  I realized, I hadn’t lost my temper because Finton was an ass.  I’d lost control because he’d dashed my hopes.  I’d wanted Finton to be Artie.  I’d wanted it so badly… 

 

I hadn’t realized how much, until I’d gotten a good look at him.  But the second I saw him, I knew that he wasn’t my partner.  There was a resemblance all right:  Finton was about Artie’s height, and he had curly dark hair and brown eyes.  But that’s where it ended.  Finton was tall but thin, with narrow shoulders and blunt, short-fingered hands, not a broad, strong frame and long, beautifully shaped fingers, like Artie had.  As soon as I’d laid eyes on him, I’d been so disappointed, had felt so cheated that I’d wanted to snarl.  Because the instant I saw his face, I’d known I would be riding out of Dallas alone again.

 

I still couldn’t remember bursting back through Finton’s door, after he yelled his parting insult.  But the brutal satisfaction I’d felt when my hand closed around his throat was clear as crystal in my mind. 

 

I might’ve killed him.  And for what?

 

The thought made me sweat.

 

As I rode away from Dallas, for the first time, my resolve to keep searching until I found Artie weakened.  Finton was just one of the ‘Not-Artie’s’ I’d already tracked down.  Two in Dallas alone, and several more on the way there.  How many more would there be?  With each one, my frustration was mounting.  I was starting to feel like I’d never find my old partner, no matter how long I searched. 

 

How long I could keep doing this?  Weeks?  Months?  Years?  Was I crazy for even trying? 

 

I thought I’d let go of all of my anger, that night outside of Joplin.  But judging by what I’d been doing lately, I hadn’t.  An even darker voice whispered, deep inside:   _How long will it be before I break, and really kill someone_?

 

I kicked Flame to a gallop, but even feeling his powerful hooves pounding away under me didn’t seem to help.  My hands clenched into fists on the reins, and my breath came faster.  It felt like something was trying to burst out of my chest – all the anger and frustration I felt, and the awful grief, loneliness and fear that fed them.  “Damn it,” I whispered.  It felt so good, I said it again, louder.  “ _God_   _damn it!  Shit!”_

 

I wasn’t really sure who I was cursing at.  God, fate, Artie, myself?  It didn’t seem to matter.  Next thing I knew, I was shouting, cursing a blue streak at the top of my voice as I rode.  Every obscenity I knew, every curse I’d learned in the war came pouring out of me.  I cursed like a madman, unable to stop.  Frightened, Flame started to run faster, snorting and pulling at the reins.  I urged him on at first, his reckless speed feeding the wildness in me.  Disturbed by my anger, and all the noise I was making, Flame started to fight me for control.  Somehow, he managed to get the bit between his teeth, and then he was galloping so fast that it was all I could do to stay in the saddle.  Dimly, through the red fog of my rage, I realized that if I didn’t stop yelling and rein him in, he’d either buck me off or hurt himself, running wild. 

 

You’re hurting him.  Stop it.

 

I snapped my mouth shut and panted through gritted teeth for a minute, trying to get a hold of myself.  Then I leaned over Flame’s heaving neck.  “Whoa, boy!” I said in a low voice, starting to try to calm him down.  “Whoa now!”  I leaned over and murmured in his ears, over and over.

 

After I stopped shouting, Flame finally slowed his frantic headlong gallop.  Though he still tossed his head and snorted, he began to lose his fear and at last, he let go of the bit.  I finally pulled him to a trot, then a walk.  I gave him some time to cool down, then I pulled him up.  “There, Flame.  There’s a good horse.  Settle down now,” I said, though I felt anything but calm myself.   I tried to pet his neck to soothe him, but my hands still shook with rage and it didn’t do much good.  Flame’s neck and sides were lathered and his chest heaved.  So did mine.  I was breathing almost as hard as he was.

 

You’re just damn lucky he didn’t lame himself, or even break a leg, you ass.

 

I knew that was true, but I wasn’t ready to listen to the voice of reason yet.

 

I’d managed to contain my horse’s fear, but not my own rampaging emotions.  I felt guilty and angry at myself, too, for treating both Finton and my horse so badly.  Though I’d managed to stop shouting, I still felt like I was going to explode.  I had to let it out somehow. 

 

I leapt off of Flame, tossed his reins into the nearest bush and stalked over to a nearby tree.  I stared at it with gritted teeth for a minute, shaking.  Then, without knowing I was going to do it, I punched it savagely.  Pain ripped through my hands, but I felt so wild, so out of control that it almost felt good.  I couldn’t stop.   “Damn it, damn it, DAMN IT!” I roared, pounding on the tree until it shook.

 

Finally the trunk of the little tree cracked with a sharp sound, and part of it sheared off.  Somehow, that stopped me.  I sank to my knees, shaking and exhausted, cradling my aching hands.  Sanity trickled back slowly.  I realized that other than my own harsh breathing, it was very quiet in the little clearing I’d wound up in.  I listened hard for awhile, realizing belatedly that when I’d lost control, I’d lost track of my surroundings.  Which was unforgivably stupid, out in the wild.  But that day I was lucky.  No one had snuck up on me while I was carrying on. 

 

I looked down wearily at my hands.  They were both bloodied, and some of my knuckles were split.  I stared at them while I got my breath back, wondering dimly if I’d broken any bones.  There was a sharp ache in my left hand that told me it was likely.  Flame neighed shrilly behind me, probably still a bit unnerved by my crazy behavior.  I hadn’t even tied him up when I dismounted, I’d just thrown his reins into a thorny bush.  I was lucky he hadn’t run off.  I was shaking and covered with sweat, and blood dripped from my hands, but at least my blinding rage had been loosed.  I closed my eyes, too tired to get up. 

 

“Artie,” I tried to say.  But it came out more like a sob.

 

Only the wind answered me.

 

I’d never wanted Artie so much.  I remembered how gruffly I’d always submitted to him when he’d patched me up.  Now I longed for that, longed for his gentle, careful hands on me, binding up my wounds.  But I was alone.

 

_I’ve got nothing.  Nothing_.

 

I leaned forward until my bent head nearly touched the ground.  Memory seared me.  Once again, I saw the terrible emptiness of the train, the day that Artie had left.  I saw myself racing through it, fear turning to terror as I checked each compartment, found them all empty, and realized he’d left me without a word.  I’d had nothing ever since then.  Nothing that mattered, anyway.  Pain cut through me, worse than the throbbing heat from my bloody hands. 

 

Hollowed out, gutted by Artie’s loss, I heard a strangled sound and knew it’d come from my own throat.

 

I hadn’t cried when Artie left.  I hadn’t let myself.  I never cried.  I’d gotten angry instead.  Yet somehow, hot tears ran down my face then, blinding me.  Harsh sounds ripped from my throat, making me shake. I stared dully at the blurry red splotches my bleeding hands had left on the ground.  The wind had picked up, and it moaned around me like a lost soul.  I’d never felt so lost myself.

 

After a time, I heard Artie’s voice in my head.  _Stop it, James,_ he said sternly _.  Get up.  Get on your feet_.

 

Finally, I tried.  Drawing a deep breath, I lifted my heavy head, and felt a soft nudge at my shoulder.  It was Flame.  Somehow, he must’ve worked his reins loose from the bush I’d tossed them in, and walked over to me.  His large dark eyes regarded me curiously, as if to ask what the hell I thought I was doing, bawling like a child in the middle of nowhere after throwing a fit like a crazy man, and scaring him half to death. 

 

I shook my head, ashamed of myself.  I’d never hurt an animal in my life, let alone a good horse, before.  “Sorry, boy,” I said softly.  I wiped my tear-stained face on my sleeve and forced myself back up on my feet again.  I staggered before I could right myself.  I’d never felt so exhausted, so suddenly.  Still, Flame had evidently forgiven me my lapse, and I was grateful for that.  I wanted to stroke him but couldn’t, because my hands hurt too much.  Besides, I didn’t want to get my blood on him and scare him again.  I just leaned on his shoulder and spoke quietly to him for a time, letting him know my crazy rage was gone.  Flame turned his head to nuzzle me gently.  Thank God for the patient kindness of horses. 

 

“Good boy,” I said hoarsely, meaning it.  “You get extra feed tonight, Flame,” I promised him.  “Good ole’ horse.”  I picked up his reins as best I could, and looped them around a tree trunk, to make sure he stayed put while I tended to my hands.

 

I had to bind them up to stop the bleeding.  But my hands had started to swell so much by then that I could hardly bend my fingers.  And I had to tear up my only extra shirt to make bandages first.  It took me almost an hour, it hurt like blazes, and I still didn’t do a great job of bandaging my hands.  They’d probably hurt for the next week, I thought ruefully.  Or the next few months, if I’d broken something.  I’d just have to hope that I wouldn’t have to hit anyone or pull my gun for awhile.  I probably wouldn’t be able to shoot very straight, even to save my life.

 

Artie would’ve been appalled by how I’d been acting lately, I thought, ashamed.  That hurt even more than what I’d done to my hands. 

 

I thought about it while I painfully, awkwardly wiped Flame down, then gathered extra wild grass for him. 

 

By that time, I’d come to believe that I’d hurt Artie somehow.  Hurt him badly.  Maybe especially that time I’d pulled away from him.  But instead of leaving me like he must’ve wanted to then, he’d stayed.  He’d taken care of me, quietly and kindly, until I was on my feet and able to take care of myself.  It was so like Artie, to do something like that.  He had a big, generous heart.  He’d always taken care of me, despite my grousing.  He loved me, I know he did.  He loved me more than anyone ever had since I lost my mom, back before the war.  He proved that a dozen, no a hundred times over, in the years we worked together.  But I’d wounded him badly somehow.  I must have.  What else could’ve made someone who loved me that much, leave me without saying why? 

 

Just like my mother.  She’d left like that too, only she had no choice about it.  She died.  Artie chose to do it; and that felt like someone stuck a knife in me.

 

I’d been blaming him, almost hating him for leaving.  Now I knew he must’ve done it, at least in part, because of me.  I couldn’t let go of it.  I laid on my bedroll later on, trying not to think about it.  But I couldn’t stop.  It choked me, not knowing how I hurt him.  It stuck in my craw, until I felt like I could hardly eat or sleep.  Funny -- if anyone else had hurt Artie that badly, I’d’ve probably tried to kill them.  But I’d done it.  His own partner, the person Artie trusted more than anyone else. 

 

Oddly enough, that firmed up my resolve to find Artie again.  I  _had_  to find out what I’d done wrong, so I could try to make it up to him.  Even if Artie didn’t want to be friends anymore, even if he didn’t want me to stick around, or be anywhere near him, I couldn’t leave things like they were between us.  Artie was too important to me for that; and I don’t leave important things unfinished.  I loved him too, like I never loved anyone else.  I had to find him, so I could apologize.  Tell him that he was the best partner and the best friend I ever had, and that I was sorry for whatever damn fool thing I did, that made him hate me.   I had to tell him I never meant to do that.  Then I’d go away, and never bother him again.

 

But I had to find him first.  I’d been wrong earlier, when I’d told myself I had nothing.  I had that:  finding Artie. 

 

Needless to say, Colonel Richmond hadn’t been happy when Artie quit.  When I resigned right after him, he was furious.  He tried hard to talk me out of it, via telegraphs.  He offered me a lot more money to stay, and told me he’d find me a new partner.  When I refused, he offered me the same amount if I’d stay on for a time, and at least train a new agent to take my place before I left.  But I couldn’t.  As far as I was concerned, I  _had_  a partner, and there was no way in hell I’d ever stay in the Secret Service without him.  I knew what I had to do, and the Secret Service wasn’t it anymore.  The President, and the U.S. itself, would have to find someone else to protect them.  Figuring out where Artie had gone -- that was my job now.

 

That’s what drove me on, through town after town like this.  I had to make sure Artie was okay, and fix things between us. 

 

There was one other thing that helped in my search for him.  I never spent much money while I was working for the Secret Service, and I’d earned quite a bit.  I spent a little on clothes, but just put the rest away, without thinking too much about it.  After all those years, it added up.  So I could afford to search for Artie for a long time yet, without stopping.  I hadn’t spent much so far, except on food, feed for Flame and the occasional room.  And I didn’t stay in hotels that often.  Mostly, Flame and I lived off the land while I was out on the trail.  I shot deer, quail, prairie chickens and rabbits for meat, and Flame foraged on grass, scrub or whatever was handy where we stopped for the night.  So I still had plenty of money, to keep me going while I searched for Artie.

 

And I’d run through every cent I had, before I’d quit searching.  I worked it all out in my head, during those long days in the saddle.  Even if I ran out of money before I found Artie, I’d just work somewhere for awhile until I could save up enough to hit the trail again.  With my expertise with horses and guns, I could find work just about anywhere, for awhile.  Then, when I’d saved up enough to keep going, I’d start searching for Artie again.  

 

I’d faltered once in my resolve in Texas, and the consequences had been bad.  I’d injured my hands, attacked a man unjustly and almost lost Flame in the process, and my reason as well.  While my hands slowly healed, I resolved to do better.  To keep my anger under better control.  I vowed I would never assault another of the actors I was checking out.  If I did, I might lose my chance to ever find Artie; and I couldn’t let that happen. 

 

I had to keep looking.  I couldn’t stop until I found Artie, or until I died. 

 

*******************************************************************************

 

I stood up, bowing to the four men sitting around me at the card table.  “That’s it for me.”  I’d already put down my cards, so I pocketed my winnings and smiled.  “Suhs, ah thank you for a  _most_ enjoyable evenin’.  But it grows late, and I feah I must retah,” I drawled, playing at being a Southerner as I often did.  Tonight I was ‘Ashleigh Maddox’ -- at your service, suh. 

 

“Good night, y’all.” 

 

Picking up the bottle of whiskey I’d paid for, I put on my hat and tipped it at my fellow cardplayers politely.  Two of the men at the table frowned.  The other two smiled sourly, glad to see me go.  I’m sure they thought their chances would improve with my departure.

 

That was the one thing they’d been right about so far.

 

I smiled to myself as I headed for my hotel, Kansas City’s Fuller House.  Swinging the bottle cheerfully, I patted my bulging pocket with real satisfaction.  The money I’d earned beating the pants off of the locals at poker these past few days, would keep me in decent hotel rooms for the next few months.  Thank you kindly, boys, I thought, amused.  It wasn’t like I needed the money.  But I had needed a diversion during the evenings, and card tables were the only thing I cared to while away time with lately.  The calico girls didn’t interest me.  And if there were boys on offer, I didn’t care to know about it.

 

I’d left more than just some of my clothes and things behind on that train, back in Illinois.

 

The night was quiet as I walked.  There was no one out on the street but me. 

 

_Away from home, away from home,_  

_Oh I’m five hundred miles_  

_Away from home_ ….

 

I sighed to myself as that damn sad song about the train and leaving home filled my head again.  I was starting to wish that I’d never heard it.  It kept coming back to me at the most inopportune moments.

 

 Clearing my throat, I started singing something else, to banish it from my mind.  I went with the first tune that came to mind, a little ditty that was all the rage these days. 

“ _As I walked out in the streets of Laredo_

_As I walked out in Laredo one day,_  

_I spied a poor cowboy wrapped up in white linen_  

_All wrapped in white linen as cold as the clay_ …” 

 

I sauntered along for a bit, singing loudly, acting like a man who wasn’t paying close attention to anything else. 

  

" _I can see by your outfit that you are a cowboy.  
These words he did say as I boldly walked by. _

_Come an' sit down beside me an' hear my sad story._  
 _I'm shot in the breast an' I know I must die."_  
  
 _It was once in the saddle, I used to go dashing._  
 _Once in the saddle, I used to go gay._  
 _First to the card-house and then down to Rose's._  
 _But I'm shot in the breast and I'm dying today_."

  

All at once, I realized what I was singing.  Another sad song, even worse than the one about the train. _Jesus_.  A familiar melancholy seized me, and the tune faltered and died away.  I lifted my head and looked at the stars instead, trying to take comfort from their glitter, and the familiar patterns they formed in the night sky.  In the sudden silence, I listened intently to the street behind me.  I felt sad, but I hadn’t lost my wits.  I was only pretending to be careless.  I’d left the card table a winner after all, with heavy pockets.  I needed to make sure no one was following me, with robbery on their minds. 

 

After a few moments, when I heard nothing out of the ordinary, I relaxed and started picking out constellations overhead:   The Big Dipper, Orion, Cassiopeia.  It really was a beautiful night.  I took a deep breath of the cool night air, to chase the cigar smoke and whiskey fumes from my lungs.  I told myself that the mood that had taken hold of me was caused by the dreary song I’d been singing.  Though popular, it was decidedly grim.  Too grim a song to offer to the heavens on such a fine night.  I had a rather large library of music stored away in my brain.  Surely I could come up with something less like a dirge.

 

I kept walking then, and started singing again; but a bolder, braver, different tune this time.

  

“ _As I was out walkin’ on Kilgary mountain,_

_I spied Captain Farrell, and his money he was countin’.”_

_I pulled forth my pistol and rattled me rapier,_

_sayin’ “Stand and Deliver!”, for I am a bold deceiver_ …”

 

Much better, I thought, smiling. 

 

I soon entered my hotel’s lobby.  It was deserted except for the clerk, who was asleep at the desk.  I hummed the song under my breath as I passed him, so I wouldn’t wake him.   _Pleasant dreams, old man_.

 

I glanced at a clock on my way upstairs.  “Well, would you look at  _that_ ,” I muttered.  It was nearly two in the morning already.  Weariness suddenly descended on me.  Too tired to wear a mask any longer, I let the last wisps of my Southern persona drift away as I trudged upstairs to my hotel room.  By the time I got there, Ashleigh Maddox had disappeared, and I was Artemus Gordon again.  

 

I felt about a hundred years older.  Ashleigh Maddox was only a fiction, but he also wasn’t burdened with pain and regret.

 

I closed the door of my room behind me quietly, in deference to all those no doubt slumbering already in the rooms near mine.  My room smelled faintly of stale cigars, but it was clean and had a large bed, for which I was grateful.  I took my blessings where I could find them, these days.

 

I’d asked for bathwater before I left for the saloon earlier that evening, and a maid had obligingly brought a tub of water, soap and some towels while I was out.  Bless you, I thought.  I put a hand down into the water, to check its temperature.  It was tepid, but I stripped down and climbed into it anyway, glad that it hadn’t turned cold yet.  While I washed, somewhat cramped in the tub, I stared down at my right arm moodily.  A blue dragon twined there, a souvenir from a Secret Service case.  I remembered how intently focused the tattoo artist had been as she’d poked his sinuous coils into my skin, while I waited for Jim to show up…

 

_James_. 

 

The mere thought of his name brought pain in a hot rush.  I remembered his smile, and was scalded with grief.  Before I could stop myself, I wondered where he was and what he was doing.  If he was all right.  My own private rosary beads, those thoughts.  I’d run mental fingers over them so often, I’d almost stopped trying not to.

 

Almost.

 

Just then, I was too tired to stop.  Or maybe I was feeling perverse, and wanted to torture myself a little.  I’m not sure.  But for whatever reason, I did something I’d never allowed myself to do before.  I imagined how Jim might’ve reacted, when he discovered that I’d left him.  Jim’s light eyes, filling up with cold rage like rising floodwaters, turning icy as the empty train told him the story of my betrayal.  Jim’s face taking on the blank, stony look it always did when he faced an enemy.  Only that morning, the enemy was me. 

 

The images cut through me, so painful that I gasped softly.  My eyes filled, but the images kept coming, flooding past my defenses in a relentless tide of anguish. 

 

Had Jim run through the empty train calling for me, in a vain hope that I’d answer?  Had he felt bereft – or betrayed?  Had he wrecked my sleeping compartment when he’d found me gone, in a fit of rage?  Or had he just shrugged when he discovered that I’d left, felt relieved, and wired Colonel Richmond for a new and better partner?  Someone with less peculiar, less repugnant tastes?  A man Jim could truly trust?

 

Had Jim forgotten me already?

 

Was he even still alive?  Or had he gotten killed?  Had Jim died because I’d left him?

 

Oh God…  As if that thought had opened a door to Hell, horrible, bloody images filled my mind.  I saw James falling, shot through the heart, his shirt awash with crimson.  Jim knifed from behind, or hit over the head, or beaten until he lay lifeless on the ground.  I saw Jim die in a hundred ways, until I thought I’d go mad from it.

 

Tears blinded me, and I felt a stabbing pain in my chest, as if a surgeon had sliced my heart open.  I put my hands over my eyes.  “Oh God,” I moaned, “make it stop!” 

 

Mercifully, closing my eyes seemed to help.  The tide of awful images stopped, though it was some time before the pain in my chest went away, and I stopped shaking.  Finally, I lowered my hands and blinked my eyes open again.  They still swam with tears.

 

_What the hell did you do that for?  You know better_ ,  _you fool!_   My own weakness made me angry.  This new life I’d chosen was hard enough, without deliberately torturing myself by remembering all I’d lost, or imagining that the worst had happened to Jim. 

 

I tried to take deep breaths, but it wasn’t easy.  I rubbed at my chest.  The stabbing pain was gone, but the duller one, the knot that had lodged beneath my breastbone months ago, was still there.  I already knew it wouldn’t vanish easily, either.

 

_Don’t ever do that again!_  I told myself sternly.   _James is probably fine.  If there’s one thing he excels at, it’s surviving.  And no doubt he’s had a new partner for months now.  Colonel Richmond would make sure of that.  He probably assigned someone young and very able to work with Jim, and watch his back.  But you need to forget him.  Your friendship is over.  It’s done, and you’re never going to see him again.  You’ve got to let go, damn it!_

 

Words, just empty words.  Lies really, as phony as the soft, drawling tones of the Virginian I’d just pretended to be at the poker table.  But lies were all I had to tell myself these days, illusions the only blankets I had to warm myself with.  They were scant comfort, though.  I couldn’t forget.  Until I made myself a new life, until I created some new memories like bandages to plaster over my wounds, my mind and heart would just keep returning hopelessly to the man I’d loved and lost. 

 

_The man you never really had_ , a cruel little voice inside added. 

 

Damn it!  I closed my eyes again, but not fast enough.  Tears slid down my cheeks, cold and bitter as regret, and just as silent.  I let them fall and drip into the bathwater.  I allowed myself that much, but only that.  I never sobbed aloud, not even when I was alone.  I feared if I ever let my grief out entirely, if I ever gave it free rein, I might never get up again.

 

Finally, after some time had passed, I wiped at my eyes until I could see again.  I realized, I’d been thinking about James in all the wrong ways.  Bad ways, sad ways.  We’d had happy times, too.  Though I’d never been in his bed, I knew that he’d loved me as a friend.  At least, he had until he’d figured out the truth about my nature.

 

But I thrust that thought away.

 

I conjured up a mental picture of Jim.  A happy memory though, of a moment when he still cared for me.  I summoned the memory of his face, the day I came back from my last vacation to San Francisco.  Jim’s blue eyes had shone, and he’d hugged me; and when I’d asked if he missed me, he’d said yes.  And oh, his smile!  I clung to the memory of how he’d beamed at me after he’d thrown his arms around me so unexpectedly, and how happy his affectionate welcome had made me.

 

How happy we’d both been, to be reunited that day.

 

I sighed to myself, hugging that memory close as any lover.  Even if it was only for a time, still – what a time we’d had!

 

My mouth curved up in a little smile, as I remembered Jim and all the adventures and good times we’d had together.  How often we’d laughed together, how fiercely we’d sparred together on the train.  How Jim had beamed at me, that day in Oklahoma when we’d gotten the telegram that we were to receive a presidential citation for our work.  The look on his face when he’d first seen me, that day in that hospital where Loveless had held us both captive.  The fiendish doctor had drugged Jim and made him think he’d killed me.  Jim had been so relieved to find me alive, he’d actually grabbed my arms and stared at me, a huge smile breaking over his face…. 

 

We’d seen and done so many amazing things.  We’d faced murderers, assassins, crazed judges, and various dangerous maniacs hungry for power, yet Jim and I had bested them all.  And through all of it, everything we’d gone through together, Jim had been the best friend and the staunchest companion any man could ever have wished for.

 

Recalling our friendship, and the fact that Jim had once loved me, finally eased the pain in my chest.  I felt like I could breathe easily again, and I was grateful for that small mercy.

 

As a kind of reward to myself for regaining control, I got out of the tub, wrapped a towel around my hips and went over to my saddlebag.  I pulled out a tiny bundle I’d wrapped carefully in oilcloth, sat down on the bed and unwrapped it gently.  It was a small daguerrotype of Jim, framed handsomely in silver.  It was the only one I had.  I’d bought it years ago, without Jim’s knowledge. 

 

We’d been partners for about two years by then.  I was already in love with Jim, though I knew my feelings were hopeless.  Still, I’d wanted a keepsake.  Something I could remember him by, for the inevitable time when Jim married or advanced within the Secret Service, and we had to part.  I couldn’t very well ask Jim for one, but I knew where I could obtain one anyway.  Matthew Brady and his crew had photographed hundreds of Union officers during the war, especially the higher ranking officers.  Jim had eventually become a Major and Ulysses S. Grant’s aide de camp, so I knew he must’ve posed for Brady, or one of his assistants.  So when we were granted a few days furlough in New York, I’d simply told Jim that I was off to visit an old friend one morning, and gone to Brady’s studio instead.  They’d obligingly found and copied Jim’s picture for me.  I’d stowed it away in my traveling bag, and when we got back to the train, I’d hidden it in a secret compartment in an old trunk that I kept some spirit gum and old disguises in, knowing Jim would never find it there.

 

It was the first thing I’d put into my saddlebag, the morning I’d left him.  It was still my most precious possession.  Though I didn’t let myself look at it often, I stared at it hungrily now. 

 

Jim looked heartbreakingly young and desperately handsome in it, I thought.  He was in full dress uniform, one arm resting on the arm of a chair, the other hand holding his hat on his knee.  He was looking off into the distance, with a stoic expression I knew so well.  I smiled fondly to myself.  Jim was only about 22 when the picture was taken, yet he’d already risen to the rank of Major.  He looked serious, brave and determined even then.  Like he could take on the whole Rebel army single-handed.

 

I have no doubt you tried, I thought fondly.

 

I wished that I’d known Jim then, during the war.  I wished I could’ve been at his side then too, that I could’ve tried to protect him from the worst of it.  Though of course, Jim hadn’t needed my protection – then or now.  He hadn’t just survived the war, he’d come out a hero, an aide to President Grant himself.

 

I smiled a little, thinking of that.  If there’d ever been a man born to be a hero, it was Jim.  He just had a sort of shine about him.  Something the ancient Celts would’ve called glamour.  And it wasn’t just his handsome face and body, though they were admittedly gorgeous.  Despite Jim’s relatively small stature, he had the heart of a lion, and a fierce kind of loyalty and courage that were rare. 

 

Sure, Jim had his faults, too.  He was arrogant, stubborn, reckless, and his weakness for women…  That’d always been a thorn in my side.  Jim had exasperated and infuriated me many times.  Still.  Those qualities were just part and parcel of who he was, and I wouldn’t have tried to change him if I could, because his good points far outweighed his faults.  Jim was an amazing man, the best one I’d ever known.  I was lucky ever to have known him at all.  Luckier still, to have once called him my friend.

 

It was a long time before I could put his photograph down.  But finally I drew the oilcloth over it regretfully, and put it carefully away again in my saddlebag.  As I did, I spoke to him in my head.  The words were short, and already worn rather thin from frequent repetition; but they were nonetheless heartfelt.

 

_Be well, James, wherever you are_ , I told him silently.   _Take care, and keep yourself safe_.

 

A more religious man might’ve thought of it as praying.  If I’d thought there was a God, or that He’d listen to an old reprobate like me, I might’ve asked Him to look out for Jim.  As it was, I thought it better to just advise Jim to look out for himself.

 

I smiled a little ruefully.  There was small chance of that, really, knowing Jim.  Still I wished it for him, knowing he’d never do so for himself.

 

Once I stowed my precious daguerreotype away, I sat myself back down on the bed.  I was in a better frame of mind.  My terrible sadness had faded, banished by my good memories of James.  Once again, they’d helped me ward off despair.  Still, despite the fact that I was tired, I knew I couldn’t sleep yet.

 

Some nights were worse than others.  Some nights, I held off loneliness by reading.  “On the Origin of Species”, Charles Darwin’s controversial work, was a personal favorite of mine, and one of the few books I’d brought with me when I left Jim.  I considered the man a true genius.  Darwin’s keen, sharp observations of the smallest objects and creatures in Nature, and the broad, brilliant theories he’d developed about Man’s origins based on them, never failed to captivate me.  His idea that we had descended from higher primates was fascinating.  As soon as I’d read it, I’d been convinced of its truth.  I’d never believed that old story about the Garden of Eden anyway.  No matter what religious types would have us believe, the Bible was written by men.  As a scientist, Darwin’s theory made much more sense to me.  And it pleased me to think that Man had earned his place in the world.  That he’d fought his way upward and onto the path towards civilization, rather than being granted or denied it by the whim of a capricious God.

 

But that night, I didn’t feel like reading.  Though looking at James’ picture had cheered me a little, I still felt wrung out by my earlier tears.  I tried to decide if I should just turn in anyway. 

 

Some nights, I kept despair at bay simply by putting it off.  I’d tell myself that I could lose all control soon – just not right then.  But as soon as I decided where I was going to settle, as soon as I’d found myself some place I could call home again, then I could shut my door behind me, let go and fall to pieces if I chose, where no one could see me.  Once I could lock my own door and shut out the world, I could cry as much as I wanted to.  I’d be able to let it all out, all the anguish that I’d had to hide deep inside since I left James.

 

Once I found a home again.

 

But I hadn’t yet.  That cruel little voice inside me whispered that I had no home now, without James.  That I’d never have one again, as long as we were apart. 

 

I sighed to myself.  I was trying hard not to believe that.  I didn’t want to fall back into such black despair again tonight.  I’d done my crying, and I needed to rest.

 

But sleep wasn’t coming easily tonight.  I felt cold, and I shivered.  I told myself it was only because I was half naked, and clad only in a towel.  But the truth was, I’d been cold inside since I’d left Jim. 

 

Finally, I turned to the only real source of solace I’d ever known, apart from Jim, in all my wandering days.  I got up and pulled on my smalls, and took out the only musical instrument I had now.  I’d had to leave all of mine back on the train months ago, along with most of my other possessions.  It wasn’t the first time I’d been forced to leave almost everything I owned behind me, but not being able to play had started to bother me.  So I’d bought a second saddlebag and a small but sweet-toned violin recently, with some of the money I’d won gambling.  I laid it on the bed beside me while I resined up the bow.  Then in deference to the lateness of the hour, I began to play very softly. 

 

I’d been composing a song lately.  I hadn’t written it down yet, it was still all in my head.  It was the story of everything that had happened to me in the last few years:  my friendship with Jim, my love for him, and our eventual parting.  The tune ran high and adventurous at first, with a kind of joyous exhilaration.  Jim and I, when we first met.  The next passage turned a little darker but went even faster, became more urgent, until the song reeled along at a pace so fast it sounded like a horse at full gallop.  That was Jim and I, riding hell bent for leather on our missions for the Secret Service.  Then the song changed, turning slow and plaintive with longing.  A waltz, slow and sweet, for lovers.  The dance I’d always wanted, but never had with Jim.  Towards the end, it was a mix of piercing sadness and sweetness.  The last note was low and bleak -- despair dying away into silence.  Jim was woven all through it.  It was all the sounds of my love for him, and the way I’d lost him.  It made me feel a bit better, sometimes, to play it.  That night, I needed to.

 

I worked at it for awhile, losing myself in the intoxicating rhythm of the beginning, then refining the slower passages a little.  I wished I could’ve somehow added the sound of a steam train to it.  A sort of call to adventure.  That would’ve been the perfect opening for my song.  I’d loved the Wanderer, and I missed it still.  It was one of the few real homes I’d ever known; and it’d been such a huge part of my life with Jim, it deserved a place in the tune.  But I couldn’t think of a way to make the violin approximate the loud, hissing, chugging sound of a steam engine. 

 

Then inspiration struck.  Not the sound of the train – its whistle!  I could add a few fast notes to the song’s opening.  Loud ones that would hopefully approximate the Wanderer’s whistle, before the sound of the horses’ galloping hooves ran off with the rest of the tune. 

 

I set to work at once.  When I was done, I smiled to myself.  Those new notes at the beginning really did sound like a train’s whistle.  I smiled to myself, glad I’d figured out a way to add the Wanderer to my song.  It was a fine piece of music.  The best thing I’d ever written.  I had no intention of playing it for anyone else, though.  It was mine, the story of the best, the most important part of my life.  But it wasn’t something I wanted to share.  That song was Jim, at least to me – and I’d never wanted to share him with anyone.

 

Besides, I hadn’t even decided what to call it yet.

 

When I put the violin away at last and sat back down on the bed, I still didn’t feel sleepy.  I reached for the bottle of whiskey I’d carried up from the saloon.  It was still half full.  That would do, I decided.  I’d drink some more, then I could sleep.  I settled back against the headboard of the bed and lifted the bottle to my mouth.  The whiskey burned a little going down, but that felt good.  I craved warmth now. 

 

After a time, I started to sing a little, softly to myself.

  

“ _Well I’ll spend my days in endless roving,_

_Soft is the grass, and my bed is free_.” 

 

Drinking myself to sleep was becoming a habit.  A bad one, and I knew it; but I didn’t let that stop me. I’d done everything else I knew that usually settled me down enough so I could sleep.  I’d played my violin, even looked at Jim’s picture.  If those things hadn’t worked, then nothing but liquor would.  Well, drinking and a little singing, maybe. 

“ _I would swim over the deepest ocean,_

_The deepest ocean to be by your side._

_But the sea is wide, and I can’t cross over,_

_and neither have I wings to fly._

_Oh I wish I could find me a handy boatman,_

_to ferry me over to my lover’s side_ …”

  

A handy boatman indeed, I thought ruefully.  If only one could be found, who could take me across the vast ocean that our laws and customs, and my own actions, had placed between Jim and I.

 

I sighed softly.  Some nights, even drinking and singing didn’t seem to take away my sadness.  Then again -- even thin, self-destructive comfort was better than none at all.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Things will get better after this. They'd better, right?


End file.
